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Portrait  of  Eppie. 

Etched  by  W.  H,  W.  Bicknell.  —  From  Painting 
by  Frederick  Dielman, 


Holly  Lodge  Edition 


SILAS   MARNER 

THE     LIFTED    VEIL 

BROTHER   JACOB 


By  GEORGE    ELIOT 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEW   YORK 

CROSCUP    AND    COMPANY 
1896 


rt^; 


Of  this  edition,  Five  Hundred  Copies  only  have  been 
printed,  of  tuhich  this  is  copy  number. /..■^:Sf 


John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 
Silas  Marner  :  The  Weaver  of  Raveloe   ...        1 

The  Lifted  Veil 253 

Brother  Jacob 817 


Hist  of  Illustrations* 


PoETRAiT  OF  EppiE Frontispiece 

Silas  Marner Page  26 

Silas  Marker,  Dolly  Winthrop,  and  Eppie     ....     171 
Nanct  and  Godfrey  Cass 223 


SILAS    MARNEE: 

THE  WEAVER  OF  RAVELOE. 


A  child,  more  than  all  other  gifts 
That  earth  can  offer  to  declining  man, 
Brings  hope  with  it,  and  forward-looking  thoughts. 

Wordsworth. 


SILAS     MAENER: 

THE   WEAVER  OF  RAVELOE. 


PART    I. 


CHAPTER  I. 

In  the  days  when  the  spinning-wheels  hummed 
busily  in  the  farmhouses,  —  and  even  great  ladies, 
clothed  in  silk  and  thread-lace,  had  their  toy  spin- 
ning-wheels of  polished  oak,  —  there  might  be  seen 
in  districts  far  away  among  the  lanes,  or  deep  in 
the  bosom  of  the  hills,  certain  pallid  undersized 
men,  who,  by  the  side  of  the  brawny  country-folk, 
looked  like  the  remnants  of  a  disinherited  race. 
The  shepherd's  dog  barked  fiercely  when  one  of 
these  alien-looking  men  appeared  on  the  upland, 
dark  against  the  early  winter  sunset ;  for  what  dog 
likes  a  figure  bent  under  a  heavy  bag  ?  —  and  these 
pale  men  rarely  stirred  abroad  without  that  mys- 
terious burden.  The  shepherd  himself,  though  he 
had  good  reason  to  believe  that  the  bag  held 
nothing  but  flaxen  thread,  or  else  the  long  rolls 
of  strong  linen  spun  from  that  thread,  was  not 
quite  sure  that  this  trade  of  weaving,  indispen- 
sable though  it  was,  could  be  carried  on  entirely 
without  the  help  of  the  Evil  One.  In  that  far-off 
time  superstition  clung  easily  round  every  person 


2  SILAS  MARNER. 

or  thing  that  was  at  all  unwonted,  or  even  inter- 
mittent and  occasional  merely,  like  the  visits  of 
the  pedler  or  the  knife-grinder.  No  one  knew 
where  wandering  men  had  their  homes  or  their 
origin;  and  how  was  a  man  to  be  explained  unless 
you  at  least  knew  somebody  who  knew  his  father 
and  mother?  To  the  peasants  of  old  times,  the 
world  outside  their  own  direct  experience  was  a 
region  of  vagueness  and  mystery :  to  their  untrav- 
elled  thought  a  state  of  wandering  was  a  conception 
as  dim  as  the  winter  life  of  the  swallows  that  came 
back  with  the  spring;  and  even  a  settler,  if  he 
came  from  distant  parts,  hardly  ever  ceased  to  be 
viewed  with  a  remnant  of  distrust,  which  would 
have  prevented  any  surprise  if  a  long  course  of 
inoffensive  conduct  on  his  part  had  ended  in  the 
commission  of  a  crime ;  especially  if  he  had  any 
reputation  for  knowledge,  or  showed  any  skill  in 
handicraft.  All  cleverness,  whether  in  the  rapid 
use  of  that  difficult  instrument  the  tongue,  or  in 
some  other  art  unfamiliar  to  villagers,  was  in  itself 
suspicious  -.  honest  folk,  born  and  bred  in  a  visible 
manner,  were  mostly  not  over  wise  or  clever,  —  at 
least,  not  beyond  such  a  matter  as  knowing  the 
signs  of  the  weather;  and  the  process  by  which 
rapidity  and  dexterity  of  any  kind  were  acquired 
was  so  wholly  hidden  that  they  partook  of  the 
nature  of  conjuring.  In  this  way  it  came  to  pass 
that  those  scattered  linen-weavers  —  emigrants 
from  the  town  into  the  country  —  were  to  the  last 
regarded  as  aliens  by  their  rustic  neighbours,  and 
usually  contracted  the  eccentric  habits  which  be- 
long to  a  state  of  loneliness. 

In  the  early  years  of  this  century,  such  a  linen- 
weaver,  named  Silas  Marner,  worked  at  his  vocation 


SILAS  MARNER.  3 

in  a  stone  cottage  that  stood  among  the  nutty 
hedgerows  near  the  viUage  of  Kaveloe,  and  not  far 
from  the  edge  of  a  deserted  stone-pit.  The  ques- 
tionable sound  of  Sihis's  loom,  so  unlike  the  natural 
cheerful  trotting  of  the  winnovving-machine,  or  the 
simpler  rhythm  of  the  flail,  had  a  half-fearful  fasci- 
nation for  the  Eaveloe  boys,  who  would  often  leave 
off  their  nutting  or  birds'-nesting  to  peep  in  at  the 
window  of  the  stone  cottage,  counterbalancing  a 
certain  awe  at  the  mysterious  action  of  the  loom, 
by  a  pleasant  sense  of  scornful  superiority,  drawn 
from  the  mockery  of  its  alternating  noises,  along 
with  the  bent,  treadmill  attitude  of  the  weaver. 
But  sometimes  it  happened  that  Marner,  pausing  to 
adjust  an  irregularity  in  his  thread,  became  aware 
of  the  small  scoundrels,  and,  though  diary  of  his 
time,  he  liked  their  intrusion  so  ill  that  he  would 
descend  from  his  loom,  and,  opening  the  door, 
would  fix  on  them  a  gaze  that  was  always  enough 
to  make  them  take  to  their  legs  in  terror.  For  how 
was  it  possible  to  believe  that  those  large  brown 
protuberant  eyes  in  Silas  Marner's  pale  face  really 
saw  nothing  very  distinctly  that  was  not  close  to 
them,  and  not  rather  that  their  dreadful  stare  could 
dart  cramp,  or  rickets,  or  a  wry  mouth  at  any  boy 
who  happened  to  be  in  the  rear  ?  They  had,  per- 
haps, heard  their  fathers  and  mothers  hint  that 
Silas  Marner  could  cure  folk's  rheumatism  if  he 
had  a  mind,  and  add,  still  more  darkly,  that  if  you 
could  only  speak  the  devil  fair  enough,  he  might 
save  you  the  cost  of  the  doctor.  Such  strange 
lingering  echoes  of  the  old  demon-worship  might 
perhaps  even  now  be  caught  by  the  diligent  listener 
among  the  gray-haired  peasantry  ;  for  the  rude  mind 
with    difficulty  associates   the  ideas  of   power  and 


4  SILAS  MAENER. 

benignity.  A  shadowy  conception  of  power  that 
by  much  persuasion  can  be  induced  to  refrain  from 
inflicting  harm,  is  the  shape  most  easily  taken  by 
the  sense  of  the  Invisible  in  the  minds  of  men 
who  have  always  been  pressed  close  by  primitive 
wants,  and  to  whom  a  life  of  hard  toil  has  never 
been  illuminated  by  any  enthusiastic  religious  faith. 
To  them  pain  and  mishap  present  a  far  wider  range 
of  possibilities  than  gladness  and  enjoyment :  their 
imagination  is  almost  barren  of  the  images  that 
feed  desire  and  hope,  but  is  all  overgrown  by 
recollections  that  are  a  perpetual  pasture  to  fear. 
"  Is  there  anything  you  can  fancy  that  you  would 
like  to  eat  ? "  I  once  said  to  an  old  labouring-man, 
who  was  in  his  last  illness,  and  who  had  refused  all 
the  food  his  wife  had  ofi'ered  him.  "  No,"  he  an- 
swered, "  I  Ve  never  been  used  to  nothing  but 
common  victual,  and  I  can't  eat  that."  Experience 
had  bred  no  fancies  in  him  that  could  raise  the 
phantasm  of  appetite.  • 

And  Eaveloe  was  a  village  where  many  of  the 
old  echoes  lingered,  undrowned  by  new  voices. 
Not  that  it  was  one  of  those  barren  parishes  lying 
on  the  outskirts  of  civilization,  —  inhabited  by 
meagre  sheep  and  thinly  scattered  shepherds  :  on 
the  contrary,  it  lay  in  the  rich  central  plain  of  what 
we  are  pleased  to  call  Merry  England,  and  held 
farms  which,  speaking  from  a  spiritual  point  of 
view,  paid  highly  desirable  tithes.  But  it  was 
nestled  in  a  snug  well-wooded  hollow,  quite  an 
hour's  journey  on  horseback  from  any  turnpike, 
where  it  was  never  reached  by  the  vibrations  of 
the  coach-horn  or  of  public  opinion.  It  was  an 
important-looking  village,  with  a  fine  old  church 
and  large  churchyard  in  the  heart  of  it,  and  two 


SILAS  MARNER.  5 

or  three  large  brick-and-stone  homesteads,  with 
well-walled  orchards  and  ornamental  weathercocks, 
standing  close  upon  the  road,  and  lifting  more 
imposing  fronts  than  the  rectory,  which  peeped 
from  among  the  trees  on  the  other  side  of  the 
churchyard,  —  a  village  which  showed  at  once  the^ 
summits  of  its  social  life,  and  told  the  practised  eye 
that  there  was  no  great  park  and  manor-house  in 
the  vicinity,  but  that  there  were  several  chiefs  in 
Kaveloe  who  could  farm  badly  quite  at  their  ease, 
drawing  enough  money  from  their  bad  farming,  in 
those  war-times,  to  live  in  a  rollicking  fashion,  and 
keep  a  jolly  Christmas,  Whitsun,  and  Easter  tide. 

It  was  fifteen  years  since  Silas  Marner  had  first 
come  to  Haveloe :  he  was  then  simply  a  pallid 
young  man,  with  prominent  short-sighted  brown 
eyes,  whose  appearance  would  have  had  nothing 
strange  for  people  of  average  culture  and  experience, 
but  for  the  villagers  near  whom  he  had  come  to 
settle  it  had  mysterious  peculiarities  which  corre- 
sponded with  the  exceptional  nature  of  his  occupa- 
tion, and  his  advent  from  an  unknown  region  called 
"  North'ard."  So  had  his  way  of  life :  he  invited 
no  comer  to  step  across  his  door-sill,  and  he  never 
strolled  mto  the  village  to  drink  a  pint  at  the  Kain- 
bow,  or  to  gossip  at  the  wheelwright's ;  he  sought 
no  man  or  woman,  save  for  the  purposes  of  his  call- 
ing, or  in  order  to  supply  himself  with  necessaries ; 
and  it  was  soon  clear  to  the  Raveloe  lasses  that  he 
would  never  urge  one  of  them  to  accept  him  against 
her  will,  —  quite  as  if  he  had  heard  them  declare 
that  they  would  never  marry  a  dead  man  come  to 
life  again.  This  view  of  Marner's  personality  was 
not  without  another  ground  than  his  pale  face  and 
unexampled    eyes ;    for    Jem    Rodney,    the    mole- 


6  SILAS  MARNER. 

catcher,  averred  that  one  evening  as  he  was  return- 
ing homeward  he  saw  Silas  Marner  leaning  against 
a  stile  with  a  heavy  bag  on  his  back,  instead  of 
resting  the  bag  on  the  stile  as  a  man  in  his  senses 
would  have  done ;  and  that,  on  coming  up  to  him, 
he  saw  that  Marner's  eyes  were  set  like  a  dead 
man's,  and  he  spoke  to  him,  and  shook  him,  and  his 
limbs  were  stiff,  and  his  hands  clutched  the  bag  as 
if  they'd  been  made  of  iron;  but  just  as  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  that  the  weaver  was  dead,  he 
came  all  right  again,  like,  as  you  might  say,  in  the 
winking  of  an  eye,  and  said  "  Good-night,"  and 
walked  off.  All  this  Jem  swore  he  had  seen,  more 
by  token  that  it  was  the  very  day  he  had  been  mole- 
catching  on  Squire  Cass's  land,  down  by  the  old 
saw-pit.  Some  said  Marner  must  have  been  in  a 
"  fit,"  — a  word  which  seemed  to  explain  things  other- 
wise incredible ;  but  the  argumentative  Mr.  Macey, 
clerk  of  the  parish,  shook  his  head,  and  asked  if 
anybody  was  ever  known  to  go  off  in  a  fit  and  not 
fall  down.  A  fit  was  a  stroke,  was  n't  it?  and  it 
was  in  the  nature  of  a  stroke  to  partly  take  away 
the  use  of  a  man's  limbs  and  throw  him  on  the 
parish,  if  he  'd  got  no  children  to  look  to.  No,  no  ; 
it  was  no  stroke  that  would  let  a  man  stand  on  his 
legs,  like  a  horse  between  the  shafts,  and  then  walk 
off  as  soon  as  you  can  say  "  Gee ! "  But  there 
might  be  such  a  thing  as  a  man's  soul  being  loose 
from  his  body,  and  going  out  and  in,  like  a  bird  out 
of  its  nest  and  back  ;  and  that  was  how  folks  got 
over-wise,  for  they  went  to  school  in  this  shell-less 
state  to  those  who  could  teach  them  more  than 
their  neighbours  could  learn  with  their  five  senses 
and  the  parson.  And  where  did  Master  Marner  get 
his  knowledge  of  herbs  from,  —  and  charms  too,  if 


SILAS  MARNER.  7 

he  liked  to  give  them  away  ?  Jem  Rodney's  story 
was  no  more  than  what  might  have  been  expected 
by  anybody  who  had  seen  how  ]\[arner  had  cured 
Sally  Gates,  and  made  her  sleep  like  a  baby,  when 
her  heart  had  been  beating  enough  to  burst  her 
body,  for  two  months  and  more,  while  she  had  been 
under  the  doctor's  care.  He  might  cure  more  folks 
if  he  would ;  but  he  was  worth  speaking  fair,  if  it 
was  only  to  keep  him  from  doing  you  a  mischief. 

It  was  partly  to  this  vague  fear  that  Marner  was 
indebted  for  protecting  him  from  the  persecution 
that  his  singularities  might  have  drawn  upon  him, 
but  still  more  to  the  fact  that,  the  old  linen-weaver 
in  the  neighbouring  parish  of  Tarley  being  dead,  his 
handicraft  made  him  a  highly  welcome  settler  to 
the  richer  housewives  of  the  district,  and  even  to 
the  more  provident  cottagers,  who  had  their  little 
stock  of  yarn  at  the  year's  end.  Their  sense  of  his 
usefulness  would  have  counteracted  any  repugnance 
or  suspicion  which  was  not  confirmed  by  a  deficiency 
in  the  quality  or  the  tale  of  the  cloth  he  wove  for 
them.  And  the  years  had  rolled  on  without  pro- 
ducing any  change  in  the  impressions  of  the  neigh- 
bours concerning  Marner,  except  the  change  from 
novelty  to  habit.  At  the  end  of  fifteen  years  the 
Eaveloe  men  said  just  the  same  things  about  Silas 
Marner  as  at  the  bsginning :  they  did  not  say  them 
quite  so  often,  but  they  believed  them  much  more 
strongly  when  they  did  say  them.  There  was  only 
one  important  addition  which  the  years  had  brought : 
it  was  that  Master  Marner  had  laid  by  a  fine  sight 
of  money  somewhere,  and  that  he  could  buy  up 
"  bigger  men  "  than  himself. 

But  while  opinion  concerning  him  had  remained 
nearly  stationary,  and  his  daily  habits  had  presented 


8  SILAS  MARNER. 

scarcely  any  visible  change,  Marner's  inward  life 
had  been  a  history  and  a  metamorphosis,  as  that  of 
every  fervid  nature  must  be  when  it  has  fled,  or 
been  condemned  to  solitude.  His  life,  before  he 
came  to  Eaveloe,  had  been  filled  with  the  movement, 
the  mental  activity,  and  the  close  fellowship  which, 
in  that  day  as  in  this,  marked  the  life  of  an  artisan 
early  incorporated  in  a  narrow  religious  sect,  where 
the  poorest  layman  has  the  chance  of  distinguishing 
himself  by  gifts  of  speech,  and  has,  at  the  very  least, 
the  weight  of  a  silent  voter  in  the  government  of 
his  community.  Marner  was  highly  thought  of  in 
that  little  hidden  world,  known  to  itself  as  the 
church  assembling  in  Lantern  Yard  ;  he  was  believed 
to  be  a  young  man  of  exemplary  life  and  ardent 
faith  ;  and  a  peculiar  interest  had  been  centred  in 
him  ever  since  he  had  fallen,  at  a  prayer-meeting, 
into  a  mysterious  rigidity  and  suspension  of  con- 
sciousness, which,  lasting  for  an  hour  or  more,  had 
been  mistaken  for  death.  To  have  sought  a  medical 
explanation  for  this  phenomenon  would  have  been 
held  by  Silas  himself,  as  well  as  by  his  minister  and 
fellow-members,  a  wilful  self-exclusion  from  the 
spiritual  significance  that  might  lie  therein.  Silas 
was  evidently  a  brother  selected  for  a  peculiar  disci- 
pline ;  and  though  the  effort  to  interpret  this  disci- 
pline was  discouraged  by  the  absence,  on  his  part, 
of  any  spiritual  vision  during  his  outward  trance, 
yet  it  was  believed  by  himself  and  others  that  its 
effect  was  seen  in  an  accession  of  light  and  fervour. 
A  less  truthful  man  than  he  might  have  been 
tempted  into  the  subsequent  creation  of  a  vision  in 
the  form  of  resurgent  memory ;  a  less  sane  man 
might  have  believed  in  such  a  creation  ;  but  Silas 
was  both  sane  and  honest,  though,  as  with  many 


SILAS  MARNER.  9 

honest  and  fervent  men,  culture  had  not  defined 
any  channels  for  his  sense  of  mystery,  and  so  it 
spread  itself  over  the  proper  pathway  of  inquiry  and 
knowledge.  He  had  inherited  from  his  mother 
some  acquaintance  with  medicinal  herbs  and  their 
preparation,  —  a  little  store  of  wisdom  which  she 
had  imparted  to  him  as  a  solemn  bequest,  —  but  of 
late  years  he  had  had  doubts  about  the  lawfulness 
of  applying  this  knowledge,  believing  that  herbs 
could  have  no  efficacy  without  prayer,  and  that 
prayer  might  suffice  without  herbs ;  so  that  his 
inherited  delight  to  wander  through  the  fields  in 
search  of  foxglove  and  dandelion  and  coltsfoot, 
began  to  wear  to  him  the  character  of  a  tempta- 
tion. 

Among  the  members  of  his  church  there  was  one 
young  man,  a  little  older  than  himself,  with  whom 
he  had  long  lived  in  such  close  friendship  that  it 
was  the  custom  of  their  Lantern  Yard  brethren  to 
call  them  David  and  Jonathan.  The  real  name  of 
the  friend  was  William  Dane ;  and  he,  too,  was 
regarded  as  a  shining  instance  of  youthful  piety, 
though  somewhat  given  to  over-severity  towards 
weaker  brethren,  and  to  be  so  dazzled  by  his  own 
light  as  to  hold  himself  wiser  than  his  teachers. 
But  whatever  blemishes  others  might  discern  in 
William,  to  his  friend's  mind  he  was  faultless ;  for 
Marner  had  one  of  those  impressible  self-doubting 
natures  which,  at  an  inexperienced  age,  admire  im- 
perativeness and  lean  on  contradiction.  The  ex- 
pression of  trusting  simplicity  in  Marner's  face, 
heightened  by  that  absence  of  special  observation, 
that  defenceless,  deer-like  gaze  which  belongs  to 
large  prominent  eyes,  w^as  strongly  contrasted  by 
the  self-complacent  suppression  of  inward  triumph 


10  SILAS  MARNER. 

that  lurked  in  the  narrow  slanting  eyes  and  com- 
pressed lips  of  William  Dane.  One  of  the  most 
frequent  topics  of  conversation  between  the  two 
friends  was  Assurance  of  salvation :  Silas  confessed 
that  he  could  never  arrive  at  anything  higher  than 
hope  mingled  with  fear,  and  listened  with  longing 
wonder  when  William  declared  that  he  had  pos- 
sessed unshaken  assurance  ever  since,  in  the  period 
of  his  conversion,  he  had  dreamed  that  he  saw  the 
words  "  calling  and  election  sure "  standing  by 
themselves  on  a  white  page  in  the  open  Bible. 
Such  colloquies  have  occupied  many  a  pair  of  pale- 
faced  weavers,  whose  unnurtured  souls  have  been 
like  young  winged  things,  fluttering  forsaken  in 
the  twilight. 

It  had  seemed  to  the  unsuspecting  Silas  that  the 
friendship  had  suffered  no  chill  even  from  his  for- 
mation of  another  attachment  of  a  closer  kind. 
For  some  months  he  had  been  engaged  to  a  young 
servant-woman,  waiting  only  for  a  little  increase  to 
their  mutual  savings  in  order  to  their  marriage ; 
and  it  was  a  great  delight  to  him  that  Sarah  did  not 
object  to  William's  occasional  presence  in  their 
Sunday  interviews.  It  was  at  this  point  in  their 
history  that  Silas's  cataleptic  fit  occurred  during  the 
prayer-meeting  ;  and  amidst  the  various  queries  and 
expressions  of  interest  addressed  to  him  by  his  fel- 
low-members, William's  suggestion  alone  jarred  with 
the  general  sympathy  towards  a  brother  thus  sin- 
gled out  for  special  dealings.  He  observed  that, 
to  him,  this  trance  looked  more  like  a  visitation  of 
Satan  than  a  proof  of  divine  favour,  and  exhorted 
his  friend  to  see  that  he  hid  no  accursed  thing 
within  his  soul.  Silas,  feeling  bound  to  accept 
rebuke  and  admonition  as  a  brotherly  office,  felt  no 


SILAS  MARNER.  ii 

resentment,  but  only  pain,  at  his  friend's  doubts 
concerning  him  ;  and  to  this  was  soon  added  some 
anxiety  at  the  perception  that  Sarah's  manner 
towards  him  began  to  exhibit  a  strange  fluctuation 
between  an  effort  at  an  increased  manifestation  of 
regard  and  invokmtary  signs  of  shrinking  and  dis- 
like. He  asked  her  if  she  wished  to  break  off  their 
engagement ;  but  she  denied  this  :  their  engagement 
was  known  to  the  church,  and  had  been  recognized 
in  the  prayer-meetings  ;  it  could  not  be  broken  off 
without  strict  investigation,  and  Sarah  could  render 
no  reason  that  would  be  sanctioned  by  the  feeling 
of  the  community.  At  this  time  the  senior  deacon 
was  taken  dangerously  ill,  and,  being  a  childless 
widower,  he  was  tended  night  and  day  by  some  of 
the  younger  brethren  or  sisters.  Silas  frequently 
took  his  turn  in  the  night-watching  with  William, 
the  one  relieving  the  other  at  two  in  the  morning. 
The  old  man,  contrary  to  expectation,  seemed  to  be 
on  the  way  to  recovery,  when  one  night  Silas,  sit- 
ting up  by  his  bedside,  observed  that  his  usual  audible 
breathing  had  ceased.  T^ie  candle  was  burning 
low,  and  he  had  to  lift  it  to  see  the  patient's 
face  distinctly.  Examination  convinced  him  that 
the  deacon  was  dead,  —  had  been  dead  some  time, 
for  the  limbs  were  rigid.  Silas  asked  himself  if  he 
liad  been  asleep,  and  looked  at  the  clock  :  it  was 
already  four  in  the  morning.  How  was  it  that 
William  had  not  come  ?  In  much  anxiety  he  went 
to  seek  for  help  ;  and  soon  there  were  several  friends 
assembled  in  the  house,  the  minister  among  them, 
while  Silas  went  away  to  his  work,  wishing  he  could 
have  met  William  to  know  the  reason  of  his  non- 
appearance. But  at  six  o'clock,  as  he  was  thinking 
of  going  to  seek  his  friend,  William  came,  and  with 


12  SILAS  MARKER. 

him  the  minister.  They  came  to  summon  him  to 
Lantern  Yard,  to  meet  the  church-members  there ; 
and  to  his  inquiry  concerning  the  cause  of  the  sum- 
mons the  only  reply  was,  "  You  will  hear."  Noth- 
ing further  was  said  until  Silas  was  seated  in  the 
vestry,  in  front  of  the  minister,  with  the  eyes  of 
those  who  to  him  represented  God's  people  fixed 
solemnly  upon  him.  Then  the  minister,  taking  out 
a  pocket-knife,  showed  it  to  Silas,  and  asked  him  if 
he  knew  where  he  had  left  that  knife.  Silas  said 
he  did  not  know  that  he  had  left  it  anywhere  out 
of  his  own  pocket,  —  but  he  was  trembling  at  this 
strange  interrogation.  He  was  then  exhorted  not 
to  hide  his  sin,  but  to  confess  and  repent.  The 
knife  had  been  found  in  the  bureau  by  the  departed 
deacon's  bedside,  —  found  in  the  place  where  the 
little  bag  of  church  money  had  lain,  which  the 
minister  himself  had  seen  the  day  before.  Some 
hand  had  removed  that  bag ;  and  whose  hand  could 
it  be,  if  not  that  of  the  man  to  whom  the  knife 
belonged  ?  For  some  time  Silas  was  mute  with 
astonishment ;  then  he  said,  "  God  will  clear  me : 
I  know  nothing  about  the  knife  being  there,  or  the 
money  being  gone.  Search  me  and  my  dwelling ; 
you  will  find  nothing  but  three  pound  five  of  my 
own  savings,  which  William  Dane  knows  I  have 
had  these  six  months."  At  this  William  groaned, 
but  the  minister  said,  "  The  proof  is  heavy  against 
you,  brother  Marner.  The  money  was  taken  in  the 
night  last  past,  and  no  man  was  with  our  departed 
brother  but  you,  for  William  Dane  declares  to  us 
that  he  was  hindered  by  sudden  sickness  from 
going  to  take  his  place  as  usual,  and  you  yourself 
said  that  he  had  not  come ;  and,  moreover,  you 
neglected  the  dead  body." 


SILAS  MARNER.  13 

"  I  must  have  slept,"  said  Silas.  Then  after  a 
pause,  he  added,  "  Or  I  must  have  had  another  visi- 
tation like  that  which  you  have  all  seen  me  under, 
so  that  the  thief  must  have  come  and  gone  while  I 
was  not  in  the  body,  but  out  of  the  body.  But,  I 
say  again,  search  me  and  my  dwelling,  for  I  have 
been  nowhere  else." 

The  search  was  made,  and  it  ended  —  in  William 
Dane's  finding  the  well-known  bag,  empty,  tucked 
behind  the  chest  of  drawers  in  Silas's  chamber ! 
On  this  William  exhorted  his  friend  to  confess, 
and  not  to  hide  his  sin  any  longer.  Silas  turned  a 
look  of  keen  reproach  on  him,  and  said,  "  William, 
for  nine  years  that  we  have  gone  in  and  out  to- 
gether, have  you  ever  known  me  tell  a  lie  ?  But 
God  will  clear  me." 

"  Brother,"  said  William,  "  how  do  I  know  what 
you  may  have  done  in  the  secret  chambers  of  your 
heart,  to  give  Satan  an  advantage  over  you  ?  " 

Silas  was  still  looking  at  his  friend.  Suddenly  a 
deep  flush  came  over  his  face,  and  he  was  about  to 
speak  impetuously,  when  he  seemed  checked  again 
by  some  inward  shock,  that  sent  the  flush  back  and 
made  him  tremble.  But  at  last  he  spoke  feebly, 
looking  at  William. 

"I  remember  now  —  the  knife  wasn't  in  my 
pocket." 

William  said,  "  T  know  nothing  of  what  you 
mean."  The  other  persons  present,  however,  began 
to  inquire  where  Silas  meant  to  say  that  the  knife 
was,  but  he  would  give  no  further  explanation  :  he 
only  said,  "  I  am  sore  stricken ;  I  can  say  nothing. 
God  will  clear  me." 

On  their  return  to  the  vestry  there  was  further 
deliberation.     Any  resort  to  legal  measures  for  as- 


14  SILAS  MAENER. 

certaiuing  the  culprit  was  contrary  to  the  principles 
of  the  church  in  Lantern  Yard,  according  to  which 
prosecution  was  forbidden  to  Christians,  even  had 
the  case  held  less  scandal  to  the  community.  But 
the  members  were  bound  to  take  other  measures  for 
finding  out  the  truth,  and  they  resolved  on  praying 
and  drawing  lots.  This  resolution  can  be  a  ground 
of  surprise  only  to  those  who  are  unacquainted  with 
that  obscure  religious  life  which  has  gone  on  in  the 
alleys  of  our  towns.  Silas  knelt  with  his  brethren, 
relying  on  his  own  innocence  being  certified  by 
immediate  divine  interference,  but  feeling  that 
there  was  sorrow  and  mourning  behind  for  him 
even  then,  —  that  his  trust  in  man  had  been  cru- 
elly bruised.  The  lots  declared  that  Silas  Marner 
was  guilty.  He  was  solemnly  suspended  from 
church-membership,  and  called  upon  to  render  up 
the  stolen  money  :  only  on  confession,  as  the  sign 
of  repentance,  could  he  be  received  once  more  within 
the  folds  of  the  church.  Marner  listened  in  silence. 
At  last,  when  every  one  rose  to  depart,  he  went 
towards  William  Dane  and  said,  in  a  voice  shaken 
by  agitation, — 

"  The  last  time  I  remember  using  my  knife  was 
when  I  took  it  out  to  cut  a  strap  for  you.  I  don't 
remember  putting  it  in  my  pocket  again.  You 
stole  the  money,  and  you  have  woven  a  plot  to  lay 
the  sin  at  my  door.  But  you  may  prosper,  for  all 
that :  there  is  no  just  God  that  governs  the  earth 
righteously,  but  a  God  of  lies,  that  bears  witness 
against  the  innocent." 

There  was  a  general  shudder  at  this  blasphemy. 

William  said  meekly,  "  I  leave  our  brethren  to 
judge  whether  this  is  the  voice  of  Satan  or  not.  I 
can  do  nothing  but  pray  for  you,  Silas." 


SILAS  MARNER.  15 

Poor  Marner  went  out  with  that  despah'  in  his 
soul,  that  shaken  trust  in  God  and  man,  which 
is  little  short  of  madness  to  a  loving  nature.  In 
the  bitterness  of  his  wounded  spirit,  he  said  to 
himself,  "  She  will  cast  me  off  too."  And  he  re- 
flected that  if  she  did  not  believe  the  testimony 
against  him,  her  whole  faith  must  be  upset  as  his 
was.  To  people  accustomed  to  reason  about  the 
forms  in  which  their  religious  feeling  has  incor- 
porated itself,  it  is  difficult  to  enter  into  that  simple, 
untaught  state  of  mind  in  which  the  form  and  the 
feeling  have  never  been  severed  by  an  act  of  reflec- 
tion. We  are  apt  to  think  it  inevitable  that  a  man 
in  jMarner's  position  should  have  begun  to  question 
the  validity  of  an  appeal  to  the  divine  judgment  by 
drawing  lots ;  but  to  him  this  would  have  been  an 
effort  of  independent  thought  such  as  he  had  never 
known  ;  and  he  must  have  made  the  effort  at  a 
moment  when  all  his  energies  were  turned  into  the 
anguish  of  disappointed  faith.  If  there  is  an  angel 
who  records  the  sorrows  of  men  as  well  as  their 
sins,  he  knows  how  many  and  deep  are  the  sorrows 
that  spring  from  false  ideas  for  which  no  man  is 
culpable. 

Marner  went  home,  and  for  a  whole  day  sat 
alone,  stunned  by  despair,  without  any  impulse  to 
go  to  Sarah  and  attempt  to  win  her  belief  in  his 
innocence.  The  second  day  he  took  refuge  from 
benumbing  unbelief,  by  getting  into  his  loom  and 
working  away  as  usual ;  and  before  many  hours 
were  past,  the  minister  and  one  of  the  deacons 
came  to  him  with  the  message  from  Sarah,  that 
she  held  her  engagement  to  him  at  an  end.  Silas 
received  the  message  mutely,  and  then  turned  away 
from  the  messengers  to  work  at  his  loom  again.     In 


i6  SILAS  MARNER. 

little  more  than  a  month  from  that  time,  Sarah 
was  married  to  William  Dane ;  and  not  long  after- 
wards it  was  known  to  the  brethren  in  Lantern 
Yard  that  Silas  Marner  had  departed  from  the 
town. 


CHAPTEE  II.. 

Even  people  whose  lives  have  been  made  various 
by  learning,  sometimes  find  it  hard  to  keep  a  fast 
hold  on  their  habitual  views  of  life,  on  their  faith 
in  the  Invisible,  nay,  on  the  sense  that  their  past 
joys  and  sorrows  are  a  real  experience,  when  they 
are  suddenly  transported  to  a  new  land,  where  the 
beings  around  them  know  nothing  of  their  history, 
and  share  none  of  their  ideas,  —  where  their  mother 
earth  shows  another  lap,  and  hnman  life  has  other 
forms  than  those  on  which- their  souls  have  been 
nourished.  Minds  that  have  been  unhinged  from 
their  old  faith  and  love  have  perhaps  sought  this 
Lethean  influence  of  exile,  in  which  the  past  becomes 
dreamy  because  its  symbols  have  all  vanished,  and 
the  present  too  is  dreamy  because  it  is  linked  with 
no  memories.  But  even  their  experience  may  hardly 
enable  them  thoroughly  to  imagine  what  was  the 
effect  on  a  simple  weaver  like  Silas  Marner,  when 
he  left  his  own  country  and  people  and  came  to 
settle  in  Eaveloe.  Nothing  could  be  more  unlike 
his  native  town,  set  within  sight  of  the  widespread 
hillsides,  than  this  low,  wooded  region,  where  he 
felt  hidden  even  from  the  heavens  by  the  screening 
trees  and  hedgerows.  There  was  nothing  here, 
when  he  rose  in  the  deep  morning  quiet  and  looked 
out  on  the  dewy  brambles  and  rank  tufted  grass, 
that  seemed  to  have  any  relation  with  that  life 
centring  in  Lantern  Yard,  which  had  once  been  to 
him  the   altar-place   of   high   dispensations.      The 


i8  SILAS  MARNER. 

whitewashed  walls ;  the  little  pews  where  well- 
known  figures  entered  with  a  subdued  rustling,  and 
where  first  one  well-known  voice  and  then  another, 
pitched  in  a  peculiar  key  of  petition,  uttered  phrases 
at  once  occult  and  familiar,  like  the  amulet  worn 
on  the  heart ;  the  pulpit  where  the  minister  de- 
livered unquestioned  doctrine,  and  swayed  to  and 
fro,  and  handled  the  book  in  a  long-accustomed 
manner;  the  very  pauses  between  the  couplets  of 
the  hymn,  as  it  was  given  out,  and  the  recurrent 
swell  of  voices  in  song :  these  things  had  been  the 
channel  of  divine  influences  to  Marner,  —  they  were 
the  fostering  home  of  his  religious  emotions,  —  they 
were  Christianity  and  God's  kingdom  upon  earth. 
A  weaver  who  finds  hard  words  in  his  hymn-book 
knows  nothing  of  abstractions  ;  as  the  little  child 
knows  nothing  of  parental  love,  but  only  knows  one 
face  and  one  lap  towards  which  it  stretches  its  arms 
for  refuge  and  nurture. 

And  what  could  be  more  unlike  that  Lantern 
Yard  world  than  the  world  in  Raveloe  ?  —  orchards 
looking  lazy  with  neglected  plenty  ;  the  large  church 
in  the  wide  churchyard,  which  men  gazed  at  loung- 
ing at  their  own  doors  in  service-time ;  tlie  purple- 
faced  farmers  jogging  along  the  lanes  or  turning 
in  at  the  Rainbow )  homesteads,  where  men  supped 
heavily  and  slept  in  the  light  of  the  evening  hearth, 
and  where  women  seemed  to  be  laying  up  a  stock 
of  linen  for  the  life  to  come.  There  were  no  lips 
in  Raveloe  from  which  a  word  could  fall  that  would 
stir  Silas  Marner's  benumbed  faith  to  a  sense  of 
pain.  In  the  early  ages  of  the  world,  we  know,  it 
was  believed  that  each  territory  was  inhabited  and 
ruled  by  its  own  divinities,  so  that  a  man  could 
cross  the  bordering  heights  and  be  out  of  the  reach 


SILAS  MARNER.  19 

of  his  native  gods,  whose  presence  was  confined  to 
the  streams  and  the  groves  and  the  hills  among 
which  he  had  lived  from  his  birth.  And  poor 
Silas  was  vaguely  conscious  of  something  not  un- 
like the  feeling  of  primitive  men,  when  they  fled 
thus,  in  fear  or  in  sullenness,  from  the  face  of  an 
unpropitious  deity.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the 
Power  he  had  vainly  trusted  in  among  the  streets 
and  at  the  prayer-meetings  was  very  far  away  from 
this  land  in  which  he  had  taken  refuge,  where  men 
lived  in  careless  abundance,  knowing  and  needing 
nothing  of  that  trust  wliich,  for  him,  had  been 
turned  to  bitterness.  The  little  light  he  possessed 
spread  its  beams  so  narrowly  that  frustrated  belief 
was  a  curtain  broad  enough  to  create  for  him  the 
blackness  of  night. 

His  first  movement  after  the  shock  had  been  to 
work  in  his  loom ;  and  he  went  on  with  this  unre- 
mittingly, never  asking  himself  why,  now  he  was 
come  to  Kaveloe,  he  worked  far  on  into  the  night 
to  finish  the  tale  of  Mrs.  Osgood's  table-linen  sooner 
than  she  expected,  —  without  contemplating  before- 
hand the  money  she  would  put  into  his  hand  for 
the  work.  He  seemed  to  weave,  like  the  spider, 
from  pure  impulse,  without  reflection.  Every  man's 
work,  pursued  steadily,  tends  in  this  way  to  become 
an  end  in  itself,  and  so  to  bridge  over  the  loveless 
chasms  of  his  life.  Silas's  hand  satisfied  itself  with 
throwing  the  shuttle,  and  his  eye  w^ith  seeing  the 
little  squares  in  the  cloth  complete  themselves 
under  his  effort.  Then  there  were  the  calls  of 
hunger ;  and  Silas,  in  his  solitude,  had  to  provide 
his  own  breakfast,  dinner,  and  supper,  to  fetch  his 
own  water  from  the  well,  and  put  his  own  kettle 
on  the  fire;   and  all  these  immediate  promptings 


20  SILAS  MARNER. 

helped,  along  with  the  weaving,  to  reduce  his  life 
to  the  unquestioning  activity  of  a  spinning  insect. 
He  hated  the  thought  of  the  past ;  there  was  noth- 
ing that  called  out  his  love  and  fellowship  towards 
the  strangers  he  had  come  among ;  and  the  future 
was  all  dark,  for  there  was  no  Unseen  Love  that 
carecl  for  him.  Thought  was  arrested  by  utter 
bewilderment,  now  its  old  narrow  pathway  was 
closed,  and  afiection  seemed  to  have  died  under 
the  bruise  that  had  fallen  on  its  keenest  nerves. 

But  at  last  Mrs.  Osgood's  table-linen  was  finished, 
and  Silas  was  paid  in  gold.  His  earnings  in  his 
native  town,  where  he  worked  for  a  wholesale 
dealer,  had  been  after  a  lower  rate ;  he  had  been 
paid  weekly,  and  of  his  weekly  earnings  a  large 
proportion  had  gone  to  objects  of  piety  and  charity. 
Now,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  had  five  bright 
guineas  put  into  his  hand ;  no  man  expected  a  share 
of  them,  and  he  loved  no  man  that  he  should  offer 
him  a  share.  But  what  were  the  guineas  to  him 
who  saw  no  vista  beyond  countless  days  of  weav- 
ing ?  It  was  needless  for  him  to  ask  that,  for  it 
was  pleasant  to  him  to  feel  them  in  his  palm,  and 
look  at  their  bright  faces,  which  were  all  his  own  : 
it  was  another  element  of  life,  like  the  weaving  and 
the  satisfaction  of  hunger,  subsisting  quite  aloof 
from  the  life  of  belief  and  love  from  which  he  had 
been  cut  off.  The  weaver's  hand  had  known  the 
touch  of  hard-won  money  even  before  the  palm  had 
grown  to  its  full  breadth ;  for  twenty  years,  mys- 
terious money  had  stood  to  him  as  the  symbol  of 
earthly  good,  and  the  immediate  object  of  toil.  He 
had  seemed  to  love  it  little  in  the  years  when  every 
penny  had  its  purpose  for  him ;  for  he  loved  the 
jturpose   then.      But   now,  when   all   purpose  was 


SILAS  MARNER.  21 

gone,  that  habit  of  looking  towards  the  money  and 
grasping  it  with  a  sense  of  fulfilled  effort  made  a 
loam  that  was  deep  enough  for  the  seeds  of  desire ; 
and  as  Silas  walked  homeward  across  the  fields  in 
the  twilight,  he  drew  out  the  money  and  thought 
it  was  brighter  in  the  gathering  gloom. 

About  this  time  an  incident  happened  which 
seemed  to  open  a  possibility  of  some  fellowship 
with  his  neighbours.  One  day,  taking  a  pair  of 
shoes  to  be  mended,  he  saw  the  cobbler's  wife 
seated  by  the  fire,  suffering  from  the  terrible  symp- 
toms of  heart-disease  and  dropsy,  which  he  had  wit- 
nessed as  the  precursors  of  his  mother's  death. 
He  felt  a  rush  of  pity  at  the  mingled  sight  and 
remembrance,  and,  recalling  the  relief  his  mother 
had  found  from  a  simple  preparation  of  foxglove, 
he  promised  Sally  Gates  to  bring  her  something 
that  would  ease  her,  since  the  doctor  did  her  no 
good.  In  this  office  of  charity,  Silas  felt,  for  the 
first  time  since  he  had  come  to  Kaveloe,  a  sense 
of  unity  bstwean  his  past  and  present  life,  which 
might  have  been  the  beginning  of  his  rescue  from 
the  insect-like  existence  into  which  his  nature  had 
shrunk.  But  Sally  Oates's  disease  had  raised  her 
into  a  personage  of  much  interest  and  importance 
among  the  neighbours,  and  the  fact  of  her  having 
found  relief  from  drinking  Silas  Marner's  "stuff" 
became  a  matter  of  general  discourse.  When 
Dr.  Kimble  gave  physic,  it  was  natural  that  it 
should  have  an  effect ;  but  when  a  weaver,  who 
came  from  nobody  knew  where,  worked  wonders 
with  a  bottle  of  brown  waters,  the  occult  character 
of  the  process  was  evident.  Such  a  sort  of  thing 
had  not  been  known  since  the  Wise  Woman  at 
Tarley  died;  and  she  had  charms  as  well  as  "stuff": 


22  SILAS  MARNER. 

everybody  went  to  her  when  their  children  had  fits. 
Silas  Marner  must  be  a  person  of  the  same  sort,  for 
how  did  he  know  what  would  bring  back  Sally 
Oates's  breath,  if  he  did  n't  know  a  fine  sight  more 
than  that  ?  The  Wise  Woman  had  words  that  she 
muttered  to  herself,  so  that  you  could  n't  hear  what 
they  were,  and  if  she  tied  a  bit  of  red  thread  round 
the  child's  toe  the  while,  it  would  keep  off  the  water 
in  the  head.  There  were  women  in  Eaveloe,  at 
that  present  time,  who  had  w^orn  one  of  the  Wise 
Woman's  little  bags  round  their  necks,  and,  in  con- 
sequence, had  never  had  an  idiot  child,  as  Ann 
Coulter  had.  Silas  Marner  could  very  likely  do 
as  much,  and  more  ;  and  now  it  was  all  clear  how 
he  should  have  come  from  unknown  parts,  and  be 
so  "  comical-looking."  But  Sally  Gates  must  mind 
and  not  tell  the  doctor,  for  he  would  be  sure  to 
set  his  face  against  Marner:  he  was  always  angry 
about  the  Wise  Woman,  and  used  to  threaten  those 
who  went  to  her  that  they  should  have  none  of  his 
help  any  more. 

Silas  now  found  himself  and  his  cottage  suddenly 
beset  by  mothers  who  wanted  him  to  charm  away 
the  whooping-cough,  or  bring  back  the  milk,  and 
by  men  who  wanted  stuff  against  the  rheumatics 
or  the  knots  in  the  hands ;  and,  to  secure  them- 
selves against  a  refusal,  the  applicants  brought 
silver  in  their  palms.  Silas  might  have  driven  a 
profitable  trade  in  charms  as  well  as  in  his  small 
list  of  drugs;  but  money  on  this  condition  was  no 
temptation  to  him :  he  had  never  known  an  impulse 
towards  falsity,  and  he  drove  one  after  another  away 
with  growing  irritation,  for  the  news  of  him  as  a 
wise  man  had  spread  even  to  Tarley,  and  it  was 
long  before  people  ceased  to  take  long  walks  for 


SILAS  MARNER.  23 

the  sake  of  asking  his  aid.  But  the  hope  in  his 
wisdom  was  at  length  changed  into  dread,  for  no 
one  believed  him  when  he  said  he  knew  no  charms 
and  could  work  no  cures,  and  every  man  and  woman 
who  had  an  accident  or  a  new  attack  after  applying 
to  him,  set  the  misfortune  down  to  Master  Marner's 
ill-will  and  irritated  glances.  Thus  it  came  to  pass 
that  his  movement  of  pity  towards  Sally  Oates, 
which  had  given  him  a  transient  sense  of  brother- 
hood, heightened  the  repulsion  between  him  and  his 
neighbours,  and  made  his  isolation  more  complete. 

Gradually  the  guineas,  the  crowns,  and  the  half- 
crowns  grew  to  -a  heap,  and  Marner  drew  less  and 
less  for  his  own  wants,  trying  to  solve  the  problem 
of  keeping  himself  strong  enough  to  work  sixteen 
hours  a  day  on  as  small  an  outlay  as  possible.  Have 
not  men,  shut  up  in  solitary  imprisonment,  found  an 
interest  in  marking  the  moments  by  straight  strokes 
of  a  certain  length  on  the  wall,  until  the  growth  of 
the  sum  of  straight  strokes,  arranged  in  triangles, 
has  become  a  mastering  purpose  ?  Do  we  not  wile 
away  moments  of  inanity  or  fatigued  waiting  by 
repeating  some  trivial  movement  or  sound,  until 
the  repetition  has  bred  a  want,  which  is  incipient 
habit  ?  That  will  help  us  to  understand  how  the 
love  of  accumulating  money  grows  an  absorbing 
passion  in  men  whose  imaginations,  even  in  the 
very  beginning  of  their  hoard,  showed  them  no  pur- 
pose beyond  it.  Marner  wanted  the  heaps  of  ten  to 
grow  into  a  square,  and  then  into  a  larger  square  ; 
and  every  added  guinea,  while  it  was  itself  a  satis- 
faction, bred  a  new  desire.  In  this  strange  world, 
made  a  hopeless  riddle  to  him,  he  might,  if  he 
had  had"  a  less  intense  nature,  have  sat  weaving, 
weaving,  —  looking  towards  the  end  of  his  pattern, 


24  SILAS  MARNER. 

or  towards  the  end  of  his  web,  till  he  forgot  the 
riddle,  and  everything  else  but  his  immediate  sen- 
sations ;  but  the  money  had  come  to  mark  off  his 
weaving  into  periods,  and  the  money  not  only  grew, 
but  it  remained  with  him.  He  began  to  think  it 
was  conscious  of  him,  as  his  loom  was,  and  he 
would  on  no  account  have  exchanged  those  coins, 
which  had  become  his  familiars,  for  other  coins 
with  unknown  faces.  He  handled  them,  he  counted 
them,  till  their  form  and  colour  were  like  the  satis- 
faction of  a  thirst  to  him ;  but  it  was  only  in  the 
night,  when  his  work  was  done,  that  he  drew  them 
out  to  enjoy  their  companionship.  He  had  taken 
up  some  bricks  in  his  floor  underneath  his  loom, 
and  here  he  had  made  a  hole  in  which  he  set  the 
iron  pot  that  contained  his  guineas  and  silver  coins, 
covering  the  bricks  with  sand  whenever  he  replaced 
them.  Not  that  the  idea  of  being  robbed  presented 
itself  often  or  strongly  to  his  mind :  hoarding  was 
common  in  country  districts  in  those  days  ;  there 
were  old  labourers  in  the  parish  of  Eaveloe  who 
were  known  to  have  their  savmgs  by  them,  prob- 
ably inside  their  flock-beds ;  but  their  rustic  neigh- 
bours, though  not  all  of  them  as  honest  as  their 
ancestors  in  the  days  of  King  Alfred,  had  not  ima- 
ginations bold  enough  to  lay  a  plan  of  burglary. 
How  could  they  have  spent  the  money  in  their 
own  village  without  betraying  themselves  ?  They 
would  be  obliged  to  "  run  away,"  —  a  course  as  dark 
and  dubious  as  a  balloon  journey. 

So,  year  after  year,  Silas  Marner  had  lived  in  this 
solitude,  his  guineas  rising  in  the  iron  pot,  and  his 
life  narrowing  and  hardening  itself  more  and  more 
into  a  mere  pulsation  of  desire  and  satisfaction  that 
had  no  relation  to  any  other  being.     His  life  had 


SILAS  MARNER.  25 

reduced  itself  to  the  functions  of  weaving  and 
hoarding,  without  any  contemplation  of  an  end  to- 
wards which  the  functions  tended.  The  same  sort 
of  process  has  perhaps  been  undergone  by  wiser  men, 
when  they  have  been  cut  off  from  faith  and  love,  — 
only,  instead  of  a  loom  and  a  heap  of  guineas,  they 
have  had  some  erudite  research,  some  ingenious 
project,  or  some  well-knit  theory.  Strangely  Mar- 
ner's  face  and  figure  shrank  and  bent  themselves 
into  a  constant  mechanical  relation  to  the  objects 
of  his  life,  so  that  he  produced  the  same  sort  of 
impression  as  a  handle  or  a  crooked  tube,  w^hich  has 
no  meaning  standing  apart.  The  prominent  eyes 
that  used  to  look  trusting  and  dreamy,  now  looked 
as  if  they  had  been  made  to  see  only  one  kind  of 
thing  that  was  very  small,  like  tiny  grain,  for 
which  they  hunted  everywhere;  and  he  was  so 
withered  and  yellow  that,  though  he  was  not  yet 
forty,  the  children  always  called  him  "  Old  Master 
Marner." 

Yet  even  in  this  stage  of  withering  a  little  inci- 
dent happened,  which  showed  that  the  sap  of  affec- 
tion was  not  all  gone.  It  was  one  of  his  daily  tasks 
to  fetch  his  water  from  a  well  a  couple  of  fields  off, 
and  for  this  purpose,  ever  since  he  came  to  Raveloe, 
he  had  had  a  brown  earthenware  pot,  which  he  held 
as  his  most  precious  utensil  among  the  very  few 
conveniences  he  had  granted  himself.  It  had  been 
his  companion  for  twelve  years,  always  standing  on 
the  same  spot,  always  lending  its  handle  to  him  in 
the  early  morning,  so  that  its  form  had  an  expres- 
sion for  him  of  willing  helpfulness,  and  the  impress 
of  its  handle  on  his  palm  gave  a  satisfaction  mingled 
with  that  of  having  the  fresh  clear  water.  One  day 
as  he  was  returning  from   the  well,  he   stumbled 


26  SILAS  MARNER. 

against  the  step  of  the  stile,  and  his  hrown  pot, 
falling  with  force  against  the  stones  that  over- 
arched the  ditch  helow  him,  was  broken  in  three 
pieces.  Silas  picked  up  the  pieces  and  carried  them 
home  with  grief  in  his  heart.  The  brown  pot  could 
never  be  of  use  to  him  any  more,  but  he  stuck  the 
bits  together  and  propped  the  ruin  in  its  old  place 
for  a  memorial. 

This  is  the  history  of  Silas  Marner,  until  the 
fifteenth  year  after  he  came  to  Eaveloe.  The  live- 
long day  he  sat  in  his  loom,  his  ear  filled  with  its 
monotony,  his  eyes  bent  close  down  on  the  slow 
growth  of  sameness  in  the  brownish  web,  his  mus- 
cles moving  with  such  even  repetition  that  their 
pause  seemed  almost  as  much  a  constraint  as  the 
holding  of  his  breath.  But  at  night  came  his 
revelry :  at  night  he  closed  his  shutters,  and  made 
fast  his  doors,  and  drew  forth  his  gold.  Long  ago 
the  heap  of  coins  had  become  too  large  for  the  iron 
pot  to  hold  them,  and  he  had  made  for  them  two 
thick  leather  bags,  which  wasted  no  room  in  their 
resting-place,  but  lent  themselves  flexibly  to  every 
corner.  How  the  guineas  shone  as  they  came  pour- 
ing out  of  the  dark  leather  mouths  !  The  silver 
bore  no  large  proportion  in  amount  to  the  gold, 
because  the  long  pieces  of  linen  which  formed  his 
chief  work  were  always  partly  paid  for  in  gold,  and 
out  of  the  silver  he  supplied  his  own  bodily  wants, 
choosing  always  the  shillings  and  sixpences  to  spend 
in  this  way.  He  loved  the  guineas  best,  but  he 
would  not  change  the  silver,  —  the  crowns  and  half- 
crowns  that  were  his  own  earnings,  begotten  by  his 
labour ;  he  loved  them  all.  He  spread  them  out  in 
heaps  and  bathed  his  hands  in  them ;  then  he 
counted  them  and  set  them  up  in  regular  piles,  and 


Silas  Marner. 
Photo-Etching.  —  From  Drawing  by  W,  L,  Taylor. 


SILAS  MARNER.  27 

felt  their  rounded  outline  between  his  thumb  and 
fmcrers,  and  thought  fondly  of  the  guineas  that  were 
onfy  half  earned  by  the  work  in  his  loom,  as  if  they 
had  been  unborn  children,  —  thought  of  the  gumeas 
that  were  coming  slowly  through  the  commg  years, 
through  all  his  life,  which  spread  far  away  before 
him  the  end  quite  hidden  by  countless  days  of 
weaving.  No  wonder  his  thoughts  were  still  with 
his  looSi  and  his  money  when  he  made  his  journeys 
throuoh  the  fields  and  the  lanes  to  fetch  and  carry 
home\is  work,  so  that  his  steps  never  wandered 
to  the  hedge-banks  and  the  lane-side  m  search  of 
the  once  familiar  herbs :  these  too  belonged  to  the 
past  from  which  his  life  had  shrunk  away,  like  a 
rivulet  that  has  sunk  far  down  from  the  grassy 
fringe  of  its  old  breadth  into  a  little  shivering 
thre!a d,  that  cuts  a  groove  for  itself  in  the  barren 

sand. 

But  about  the  Christmas  of  that  fifteenth  year,  a 
second  great  change  came  over  Marner's  life,  and 
his  history  became  blent  in  a  singular  manner  with 
the  life  of  his  neighbours. 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  greatest  man  in  Eaveloe  was  Squire  Cass,  who 
lived  in  the  large  red  house  with  the  handsome 
flight  of  stone  steps  in  front  and  the  high  stables 
behind  it,  nearly  opposite  the  church.  He  was  only 
one  among  several  landed  parishioners,  but  he  alone 
was  honoured  with  the  title  of  Squire ;  for  though 
Mr.  Osgood's  family  was  also  understood  to  be  of 
timeless  origin,  —  the  Eaveloe  imagination  having 
never  ventured  back  to  that  fearful  blank  when 
there  were  no  Osgoods,  —  still,  he  merely  owned 
the  farm  he  occupied ;  whereas  Squire  Cass  had  a 
tenant  or  two,  who  complained  of  the  game  to  him 
quite  as  if  he  had  been  a  lord. 

It  was  still  that  glorious  war-time  which  was 
felt  to  be  a  peculiar  favour  of  Providence  towards 
the  landed  interest,  and  the  fall  of  prices  had  not 
yet  come  to  carry  the  race  of  small  squires  and 
yeomen  down  that  road  to  ruin  for  which  extrava- 
gant habits  and  bad  husbandry  were  plentifully 
anointing  their  wheels.  I  am  speaking  now  in 
relation  to  Eaveloe  and  the  parishes  that  resembled 
it ;  for  our  old-fashioned  country  life  had  many 
different  aspects,  as  all  life  must  have  when  it  is 
spread  over  a  various  surface,  and  breathed  on 
variously  by  multitudinous  currents,  from  the 
winds  of  heaven  to  the  thoughts  of  men,  which  are 
forever  moving  and  crossing  each  other  with  in- 
calculable results.  Eaveloe  lay  low  among  the 
bushy  trees  and  the  rutted  lanes,  aloof  from  the 


SILAS  MARNER.  29 

currents  of  industrial  energy  and  Puritan  earnest- 
ness :  the  rich  ate  and  drank  freely,  accepting  gout 
and  apoplexy  as  things  that  ran  mysteriously  in 
respectable  families,  and  the  poor  thought  that  the 
rich  were  entirely  in  the  right  of  it  to  lead  a  jolly 
life  ;  besides,  their  feasting  caused  a  multiplication 
of  orts,  which  were  the  heirlooms  of  the  poor. 
Betty  Jay  scented  the  boiling  of  Squire  Cass's  hams, 
but  her  longing  was  aiTcsted  by  the  unctuous 
liquor  in  which  they  were  boiled ;  and  when  the 
seasons  brought  round  the  great  merry-makings, 
they  were  regarded  on  all  hands  as  a  fine  thing  for 
the  poor.  For  the  Eaveloe  feasts  were  like  the 
rounds  of  beef  and  the  barrels  of  ale,  —  they  were 
on  a  large  scale,  and  lasted  a  good  while,  especially 
in  the  winter-time.  After  ladies  had  packed  up 
their  best  gowns  and  top-knots  in  bandboxes,  and 
had  incurred  the  risk  of  fording  streams  on  pillions 
with  the  precious  burden  in  rainy  or  snowy  weather, 
when  there  was  no  knowing  how  high  the  water 
would  rise,  it  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  they 
looked  forward  to  a  brief  pleasure.  On  this  ground 
it  was  always  contrived  in  the  dark  seasons,  when 
there  was  little  work  to  be  done,  and  the  hours 
were  long,  that  several  neighbours  should  keep 
open  house  in  succession.  So  soon  as  Squire  Cass's 
standing  dishes  diminished  in  plenty  and  freshness, 
his  guests  had  notliing  to  do  but  to  walk  a  little 
higher  up  the  village  to  Mr.  Osgood's,  at  the  Or- 
chards, and  they  found  hams  and  chines  uncut, 
pork-pies  with  the  scent  of  the  fire  in  them,  spun 
butter  in  all  its  freshness,  —  everything,  in  fact, 
that  appetites  at  leisure  could  desire,  in  perhaps 
greater  perfection,  though  not  in  greater  abun- 
dance, than  at  Squire  Cass's. 


30  SILAS  MARNER. 

For  the  Squire's  wife  had  died  long  ago,  and  the 
Red  House  was  without  that  presence  of  the  wife 
and  mother  which  is  the  fountain  of  wholesome 
love  and  fear  in  parlour  and  kitchen  ;  and  this  helped 
to  account  not  only  for  there  being  more  profusion 
than  finished  excellence  in  the  holiday  provisions, 
but  also  for  the  frequency  with  which  the  proud 
Squire  condescended  to  preside  in  the  parlour  of 
the  Kainbow  rather  than  under  the  shadow  of  his 
own  dark  wainscot ;  perhaps,  also,  for  the  fact  that 
his  sons  had  turned  out  rather  ill.  Raveloe  was 
not  a  place  where  moral  censure  was  severe,  but  it 
was  thought  a  weakness  in  the  Squire  that  he  had 
kept  all  his  sons  at  home  in  idleness  ;  and  though 
some  license  was  to  be  allowed  to  young  men  whose 
fathers  could  afford  it,  people  shook  their  heads  at 
the  courses  of  the  second  son,  Dunstan,  commonly 
called  Dunsey  Cass,  whose  taste  for  swopping  and 
betting  might  turn  out  to  be  a  sowing  of  something 
worse  than  wild  oats.  To  be  sure,  the  neighbours 
said,  it  was  no  matter  what  became  of  Dunsey,  — 
a  spiteful  jeering  fellow,  who  seemed  to  enjoy  his 
drink  the  more  when  other  people  went  dry,  — 
always  provided  that  his  doings  did  not  bring 
trouble  on  a  family  like  Squire  Cass's,  with  a  monu- 
ment in  the  churcli,  and  tankards  older  than  King 
George.  But  it  would  be  a  thousand  pities  if  Mr. 
Godfrey,  the  eldest,  a  fine  open-faced  good-natured 
young  man  who  was  to  come  into  the  land  some 
day,  should  take  to  going  along  the  same  road  with 
his  brother,  as  he  had  seemed  to  do  of  late.  If  he 
went  on  in  that  way,  he  would  lose  Miss  Nancy^ 
Lammeter ;  for  it  was  well  known  that  she  had 
looked  very  shyly  on  him  ever  since  last  Whitsun- 
tide twelvemonth,  when  there  was  so   much  talk 


SILAS  MARNER.  31 

about  his  being  away  from  home  days  and  days 
together.  There  was  something  wrong,  more  than 
common,  —  that  was  quite  clear  ;  for  Mr.  Godfrey 
did  n't  look  half  so  fresh-coloured  and  open  as  he 
used  to  do.  At  one  time  everybody  was  saying, 
What  a  handsome  couple  he  and  Miss  Nancy  Lara- 
meter  would  make  !  and  if  she  could  come  to  be 
mistress  at  the  Red  House,  there  would  be  a  fine 
change,  for  the  Lammeters  had  been  brought  up 
in  that  way  that  they  never  suffered  a  pinch  of 
salt  to  be  wasted,  and  yet  everybody  in  their  house- 
hold had  of  the  best,  according  to  his  place.  Such 
a  daughter-in-law  would  be  a  saving  to  the  old 
Squire,  if  she  never  brought  a  penny  to  her 
fortune ;  for  it  was  to  be  feared  that,  notwith- 
standing his  incomings,  there  were  more  holes 
in  his  pocket  than  the  one  where  he  put  his  own 
hand  in.  But  if  Mr.  Godfrey  did  n't  turn  over 
a  new  leaf,  he  might  say  "  Good-by "  to  Miss 
Nancy  Larameter. 

It  was  the  once  hopeful  Godfrey  who  was  stand- 
ing, with  his  hands  in  his  side-pockets  and  his 
back  to  the  fire,  in  the  dark  wainscoted  parlour, 
one  late  November  afternoon  in  that  fifteenth  year 
of  Silas  Marner's  life  at  Raveloe.  The  fading  gray 
light  fell  dimly  on  the  walls  decorated  with  guns, 
whips,  and  foxes'  brushes,  on  coats  and  hats  fiung 
on  the  chairs,  on  tankards  sending  forth  a  scent  of 
flat  ale,  and  on  a  half-choked  fire,  with  pipes  propped 
up  in  the  chimney-corners  :  signs  of  a  domestic  life 
destitute  of  any  hallowing  charm,  with  which  the 
look  of  gloomy  vexation  on  Godfrey's  blond  face 
was  in  sad  accordance.  He  seemed  to  be  waiting 
and  listening  for  some  one's  approach  ;  and  presently 
the  sound  of  a  heavy  step,   with   an   accompany- 


32  SILAS  MARNER. 

ing  whistle,  was  heard  across  the  large  empty 
eutrance-hall. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  thick-set,  heavy-looking 
young  man  entered,  with  the  flushed  face  and  the 
gratuitously  elated  bearing  which  mark  the  first 
stage  of  intoxication.  It  was  Dunsey,  and  at  the 
sight  of  him  Godfrey's  face  parted  with  some  of 
its  gloom  to  take  on  the  more  active  expression  of 
hatred.  The  handsome  brown  spaniel  that  lay 
on  the  hearth  retreated  under  the  chair  in  the 
chimney-corner. 

"  Well,  Master  Godfrey,  what  do  you  want  with 
me?"  said  Dunsey,  in  a  mocking  tone.  "You're 
my  elders  and  betters,  you  know ;  I  was  obliged 
to  come  when  you  sent  for  me." 

"Why,  this  is  what  I  want — and  just  shake 
yourself  sober  and  listen,  will  you  ?  "  said  Godfrey, 
savagely.  He  had  himself  been  drinking  more  than 
v/as  good  for  him,  trying  to  turn  his  gloom  into 
uncalculating  anger.  "  I  want  to  tell  you,  I  must 
hand  over  that  rent  of  Fowler's  to  the  Squire,  or 
else  tell  him  I  gave  it  you ;  for  he 's  threatening 
to  distrain  for  it,  and  it  '11  all  be  out  soon,  whether 
I  tell  him  or  not.  He  said,  just  now,  before  he 
went  out,  he  should  send  word  to  Cox  to  distrain, 
if  Fowler  did  n't  come  and  pay  up  his  arrears  this 
week.  The  Squire  's  short  o'  cash,  and  in  no  humour 
to  stand  any  nonsense ;  and  you  know  what  he 
threatened,  if  ever  he  found  you  making  away  with 
his  money  again.  So,  see  and  get  the  money,  and 
pretty  quickly,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Oh ! "  said  Dunsey,  sneeringly,  coming  nearer 
to  his  brother  and  looking  in  his  face.  "  Suppose, 
now,  you  get  the  money  yourself,  and  save  me  the 
trouble,  eh  ?     Since  you  was  so  kind  as  to  hand 


SILAS  MARNER.  33 

it  over  to  me,  you  '11  not  refuse  me  the  kindness 
to  pay  it  back  for  me :  it  was  your  brotherly  love 
made  you  do  it,  you  know." 

Godfrey  bit  his  lips  and  clenched  his  fist.  "  Don't 
come  near  me  with  that  look,  else  I  '11  knock  you 
down." 

"  Oh  no,  you  won't,"  said  Dunsey,  turning  away 
on  his  heel,  however.  "  Because  I  'm  such  a  good- 
natured  brother,  you  know.  I  might  get  you  turned 
out  of  house  and  home,  and  cut  off  with  a  shilling 
any  day.  I  might  tell  the  Squire  how  his  hand- 
some son  was  married  to  that  nice  young  woman, 
Molly  Farren,  and  was  very  unhappy  because  he 
could  n't  live  with  his  drunken  wife,  and  I  should 
slip  into  your  place  as  comfortable  as  could  be. 
But  you  see,  I  don't  do  it,  —  I  'm  so  easy  and  good- 
natured.  You  '11  take  any  trouble  for  me.  You  '11 
get  the  hundred  pounds  for  me,  —  I  know  you  will." 

"  How  can  I  get  the  money  ? "  said  Godfrey, 
quivering.  "  I  have  n't  a  shilling  to  bless  myself 
with.  And  it 's  a  lie  that  you  'd  slip  into  my  place : 
you  'd  get  yourself  turned  out  too,  that 's  all.  For 
if  you  begin  telling  tales,  I  '11  follow.  Bob 's  my 
father's  favourite, — you  know  that  very  well. 
He  'd  only  think  himself  well  rid  of  you." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Dunsey,  nodding  his  head 
sideways  as  he  looked  out  of  the  window.  "  It  'ud 
be  very  pleasant  to  me  to  go  in  your  company,  — 
you  're  such  a  handsome  brother,  and  we  've  always 
been  so  fond  of  quarrelling  with  one  another,  I 
should  n't  know  what  to  do  without  you.  But 
you  'd  like  better  for  us  both  to  stay  at  home  to- 
gether; I  know  you  would.  So  you'll  manage  to 
get  that  little  sum  o'  money,  and  I  '11  bid  you 
good-by,  though  I  'm  sorry  to  part." 


34  SILAS  MARNER. 

Dimstan  was  moving  off,  but  Godfrey  rushed 
after  him  and  seized  him  by  the  arm,  saying,  with 
an  oath, — 

"  I  tell  you,  I  have  no  money  ;  I  can  get  no 
money." 

"  Borrow  of  old  Kimble." 

"  I  tell  you,  he  won't  lend  me  any  more,  and  I 
sha'n't  ask  him." 

"  Well,  then,  sell  Wildfire." 

"  Yes,  that 's  easy  talking.  I  must  have  the 
money  directly." 

"  Well,  you  've  only  got  to  ride  him  to  the  hunt 
to-morrow.  There  '11  be  Bryce  and  Keating  there, 
for  sure.     You  '11  get  more  bids  than  one." 

"  I  dare  say,  and  get  back  home  at  eight  o'clock, 
splashed  up  to  the  chin.  I  'm  going  to  Mrs.  Os- 
good's birthday  dance." 

"  Oho ! "  said  Dunsey,  turning  his  head  on  one 
side,  and  trying  to  speak  in  a  small  mincing  treble. 
"  And  there  's  sweet  Miss  Nancy  coming  ;  and  we 
shall  dance  with  her,  and  promise  never  to  be 
naughty  again,  and  be  taken  into  favour,  and  —  " 

"  Hold  your  tongue  about  Miss  Nancy,  you  fool," 
said  Godfrey,  turning  red,  "  else  I  '11  throttle  you." 

"  What  for  ? "  said  Dunsey,  still  in  an  artificial 
tone,  but  taking  a  whip  from  the  table  and  beating 
the  butt-end  of  it  on  his  palm.  "  You  've  a  very 
good  chance.  I  'd  advise  you  to  creep  up  her  sleeve 
again :  it  'ud  be  saving  time,  if  Molly  should  hap- 
pen to  take  a  drop  too  much  laudanum  some 
day,  and  make  a  widower  of  you.  Miss  Nancy 
would  n't  mind  being  a  second,  if  she  did  n't  know 
it.  And  you 've  got  a  good-natured  brother,  who'll 
keep  your  secret  well,  because  you'll  be  so  very 
obliging  to  him." 


SILAS   MARNER.  35 

"  I  '11  tell  yon  what  it  is,"  said  Godfrey,  quivering, 
and  pale  again,  "  my  patience  is  pretty  near  at  an 
end.  If  you  'd  a  little  more  sharpness  in  you,  you 
might  know  that  you  may  urge  a  man  a  bit  too  far, 
and  make  one  leap  as  easy  as  another.  I  don't 
know  but  what  it  is  so  now :  I  may  as  well  tell  the 
Squire  everything  myself,  —  I  should  get  you  off 
my  back,  if  I  got  nothing  else.  And,  after  all,  he  '11 
know  some  time.  She  's  been  threatening  to  come 
herself  and  tell  him.  So,  don't  flatter  yourself  that 
your  secrecy  's  worth  any  price  you  choose  to  ask. 
You  drain  me  of  money  till  I  have  got  nothing  to 
pacify  her  with,  and  she  '11  do  as  she  threatens  some 
day.  It 's  all  one.  I  '11  tell  my  father  everything 
myself,  and  you  may  go  to  the  devil." 

Dunsey  perceived  that  he  had  overshot  his  mark, 
and  that  tliere  was  a  point  at  which  even  the  hesi- 
tating Godfrey  might  be  driven  into  decision.  But 
he  said,  with  an  air  of  unconcern,  — 

"  As  you  please  ;  but  I  '11  have  a  draught  of  ale 
first."  And  ringing  the  bell,  he  threw  himself 
across  two  chairs,  and  began  to  rap  the  window-seat 
with  the  handle  of  his  whip. 

Godfrey  stood,  still  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  un- 
easily moving  his  fingers  among  the  contents  of  his 
side-pockets,  and  looking  at  the  floor.  That  big 
muscular  frame  of  his  held  plenty  of  animal  courage, 
but  helped  him  to  no  decision  when  the  dangers  to 
be  braved  were  such  as  could  neither  be  knocked 
down  nor  throttled.  His  natural  irresolution  and 
moral  cowardice  were  exaggerated  by  a  position  in 
which  dreaded  consequences  seemed  to  press  equally 
on  all  sides,  and  his  irritation  had  no  sooner  pro- 
voked him  to  defy  Dunstan  and  anticipate  all  pos- 
sible betrayals,  than  the  miseries  he  must  bring  on 


36  SILAS  MARNER. 

himself  by  such  a  step  seemed  more  unendurable  to 
him  than  the  present  evil.  The  results  of  confes- 
sion v/ere  not  contingent,  they  were  certain  ;  whereas 
betrayal  was  not  certain.  From  the  near  vision  of 
that  certainty  he  fell  back  on  suspense  and  vacil- 
lation with  a  sense  of  repose.  The  disinherited  son 
of  a  small  squire,  equally  disinclined  to  dig  and  to 
beg,  was  almost  as  helpless  as  an  uprooted  tree, 
which,  by  the  favour  of  earth  and  sky,  has  grown 
to  a  handsome  bulk  on  the  spot  where  it  first  shot 
upward.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  possible  to 
think  of  digging  with  some  cheerfulness  if  Nancy 
Lammeter  were  to  be  won  on  those  terms ;  but 
since  he  must  irrevocably  lose  her  as  well  as  the 
inheritance,  and  must  break  every  tie  but  the  one 
that  degraded  him  and  left  him  without  motive  for 
trying  to  recover  his  better  self,  he  could  imagine 
no  future  for  himself  on  the  other  side  of  confession 
but  that  of  "  'listing  for  a  soldier "  —  the  most 
desperate  step,  short  of  suicide,  in  the  eyes  of 
respectable  families.  No !  he  would  rather  trust 
to  casualties  than  to  his  own  resolve,  —  rather  go 
on  sitting  at  the  feast,  and  sipping  the  wine  he 
loved,  though  with  the  sword  hanging  over  him 
and  terror  in  his  heart,  than  rush  away  into  the 
cold  darkness  where  there  was  no  pleasure  left. 
The  utmost  concession  to  Dunstan  about  the  horse 
began  to  seem  easy,  compared  with  the  fulfilment 
of  his  own  threat.  But  his  pride  would  not  let  him 
recommence  the  conversation  otherwise  than  by 
continuing  the  quarrel.  Dunstan  was  waiting  for 
this  and  took  his  ale  in  shorter  draughts  than 
usual. 

"  It 's  just  like  you,"  Godfrey  burst  out,  in  a  bitter 
tone, "  to  talk  about  my  selling  Wildfire  in  that  cool 


SILAS  MARNER.  37 

way,  —  the  last  thing  I  've  got  to  call  my  own,  and 
the  best  bit  of  horse-flesh  I  ever  had  in  my  life. 
And  if  you  'd  got  a  spark  of  pride  in  you,  you  'd  be 
ashamed  to  see  the  stables  emptied,  and  everybody 
sneering  about  it.  But  it 's  my  belief  you  'd  sell 
yourself,  if  it  was  only  for  the  pleasure  of  making 
somebody  feel  he  'd  got  a  bad  bargain." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  Dunstan,  very  placably,  "  you  do 
me  justice,  I  see.  You  know  I  'm  a  jewel  for  'ticing 
people  into  bargains.  For  which  reason  I  advise 
you  to  let  me  sell  Wildfire.  I  'd  ride  him  to  the 
hunt  to-morrow  for  you,  with  pleasure.  I  should  n't 
look  so  handsome  as  you  in  the  saddle,  but  it 's  the 
horse  they  '11  bid  for,  and  not  the  rider." 


"  Yes,  I  dare  say,  —  trust  my  horse  to 


you 


As  you  please,"  said  Dunstan,  rapping  the 
window- seat  again  with  an  air  of  great  unconcern. 
"It's  1/0 ti  have  got  to  pay  Fowler's  money;  it's 
none  of  my  business.  You  received  the  money 
from  him  when  you  went  to  Bramcote,  and  i/ou  told 
the  Squire  it  was  n't  paid.  I  'd  nothing  to  do  with 
that ;  you  chose  to  be  so  obliging  as  to  give  it  me, 
that  was  all.  If  you  don't  want  to  pay  the  money, 
let  it  alone  ;  it 's  all  one  to  me.  But  I  was  willing 
to  accommodate  you  by  undertaking  to  sell  the 
horse,  seeing  it  's  not  convenient  to  you  to  go  so 
far  to-morrow." 

Godfrey  was  silent  for  some  moments.  He  would 
have  liked  to  spring  on  Dunstan,  wrench  the  whip 
from  his  hand,  and  flog  him  to  mthin  an  inch  of  his 
life ;  and  no  bodily  fear  could  have  deterred  him  ; 
but  he  was  mastered  by  another  sort  of  fear,  which 
was  fed  by  feelings  stronger  even  than  his  resent- 
ment. When  he  spoke  again  it  was  in  a  half- 
conciliatory  tone. 


38  SILAS  MARNER. 

"Well,  you  mean  no  nonsense  about  the  horse, 
eh  ?  You  '11  sell  him  all  fair,  and  hand  over  the 
money  ?  If  you  don't,  you  know,  everything  'uU  go 
to  smash,  for  I  've  got  nothing  else  to  trust  to. 
And  you  '11  have  less  pleasure  in  pulling  the  house 
over  my  head,  when  your  own  skull 's  to  be  broken 
too." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  Dunstan,  rising ;  "  all  right.  I 
thought  you  'd  come  round.  I  'm  the  fellow  to 
bring  old  Bryce  up  to  the  scratch.  I  '11  get  you  a 
hundred  and  twenty  for  him,  if  I  get  you  a  penny." 

"  But  it  '11  perhaps  rain  cats  and  dogs  to-morrow, 
as  it  did  yesterday,  and  then  you  can't  go,"  said 
Godfrey,  hardly  knowing  whether  he  wished  for 
that  obstacle  or  not. 

"  Not  it"  said  Dunstan.  "  I  'm  always  lucky  in 
my  weather.  It  might  rain  if  you  wanted  to  go 
yourself.  You  never  hold  trumps,  you  know,  —  I 
always  do.  You  've  got  the  beauty,  you  see,  and 
I  've  got  the  luck,  so  you  must  keep  me  by  you 
for  your  crooked  sixpence ;  you  '11  ne-\e.r  get  along 
without  me." 

"  Confound  you,  hold  your  tongue ! "  said  God- 
frey, impetuously.  "And  take  care  to  keep  sober 
to-morrow,  else  you  '11  get  pitched  on  your  head  com- 
ing home,  and  Wildfire  might  be  the  worse  for  it." 

"Make  your  tender  heart  easy,"  said  Dunstan, 
opening  the  door.  "  You  never  knew  me  see  double 
when  I  'd  got  a  bargain  to  make ;  it  'ud  spoil  the 
fun.  Besides,  whenever  I  fall  I  'm  warranted  to 
fall  on  my  legs." 

With  that,  Dunstan  slammed  the  door  behind 
him,  and  left  Godfrey  to  that  bitter  rumination  on 
his  personal  circumstances  which  was  now  un- 
broken from  day  to  day  save  by  the  excitement  of 


SILAS  MARNER.  39 

sporting,  drinking,  card-playing,  or  the  rarer  and 
less  oblivious  pleasure  of  seeing  Miss  Nancy  Lam- 
meter.  The  subtle  and  varied  pains  springing  from 
the  higher  sensibility  that  accompanies  higher  cul- 
ture, are  perhaps  less  pitiable  than  that  dreary 
absence  of  impersonal  enjoyment  and  consolation 
which  leaves  ruder  minds  to  the  perpetual  urgent 
companionship  of  their  own  griefs  and  discontents. 
The  lives  of  those  rural  forefathers,  whom  we  are 
apt  to  think  very  prosaic  figures,  —  men  whose  only 
work  was  to  ride  round  their  laud,  getting  heavier 
and  heavier  in  their  saddles,  and  who  passed  the 
rest  of  their  days  in  the  half-listless  gratification  of 
senses  dulled  by  monotony,  —  had  a  certain  pathos 
in  them  nevertheless.  Calamities  came  to  them  too* 
and  their  early  errors  carried  hard  consequences : 
perhaps  the  love  of  some  sweet  maiden,  the  image 
of  purity,  order,  and  calm,  had  opened  their  eyes  to 
the  vision  of  a  life  in  which  the  days  would  not 
seem  too  long,  even  without  rioting;  but  the 
maiden  was  lost,  and  the  vision  passed  away,  and 
then  what  was  left  to  them,  especially  when  they 
had  become  too  heavy  for  the  hunt,  or  for  carrying 
a  gun  over  the  furrows,  but  to  drink  and  get  merry, 
or  to  drink  and  get  angry,  so  that  they  might  be 
independent  of  variety,  and  say  over  again  with 
eager  emphasis  the  things  they  had  said  already 
any  time  that  twelvemonth  ?  Assuredly,  among 
these  flushed  and  dull-eyed  men  there  were  some 
whom  —  thanks  to  their  native  human-kindness  — 
even  riot  could  never  drive  into  brutality  ;  men 
who,  when  their  cheeks  were  fresh,  had  felt  the 
keen  point  of  sorrow  or  remorse,  had  been  pierced 
by  the  reeds  they  leaned  on,  or  had  lightly  put 


40  SILAS  MAENER. 

loose  them ;  and  under  these  sad  circumstances, 
common  to  us  all,  their  thoughts  could  find  no  rest- 
ing-place outside  the  ever-trodden  round  of  their 
own  petty  history. 

That,  at  least,  was  the  condition  of  Godfrey  Cass 
in  this  six-and-twentieth  year  of  his  life.  A  move- 
ment of  compunction,  helped  by  those  small  inde- 
finable intluences  which  every  personal  relation 
exerts  on  a  pliant  nature,  had  urged  him  into  a 
secret  marriage,  which  was  a  blight  on  his  life.  It 
was  an  ugly  story  of  low  passion,  delusion,  and 
waking  from  delusion,  which  needs  not  to  be 
dragged  from  the  privacy  of  Godfrey's  bitter  mem- 
ory. He  had  long  known  that  the  delusion  was 
partly  due  to  a  trap  laid  for  him  by  Dunstan,  who 
saw  in  his  brother's  degrading  marriage  the  means 
of  gratifying  at  once  his  jealous  hate  and  his  cupid- 
ity. And  if  Godfrey  could  have  felt  himself  simply 
a  victim,  the  iron  bit  that  destiny  had  put  into  his 
mouth  would  have  chafed  him  less  intolerably.  If 
the  curses  he  muttered  half  aloud  when  he  was 
alone  had  had  no  other  object  than  Dunstan's 
diabolical  cunning,  he  might  have  shrunk  less 
from  the  consequences  of  avowal.  But  he  had 
something  else  to  curse,  —  his  own  vicious  folly, 
which  now  seemed  as  mad  and  unaccountable  to 
him  as  almost  all  our  follies  and  vices  do  when 
their  promptings  have  long  passed  away.  For 
four  years  he  had  thought  of  Nancy  Lammeter, 
and  wooed  her  with  tacit  patient  worship,  as  the 
woman  who  made  him  think  of  the  future  with 
joy :  she  would  be  his  wife,  and  would  make  home 
lovely  to  him,  as  his  father's  home  had  never  been ; 
and  it  would  be  easy,  when  she  was  always  near,  to 
shake  off  those  foolish  habits  that  were  no  pleas- 


SILAS  MARNER.  41 

ures,  but  only  a  feverish  way  of  annulling  vacancy. 
Godfrey's  was  an  essentially  domestic  nature,  bred 
up  in  a  home  where  the  hearth  had  no  'smiles,  and 
where  the  daily  habits  were  not  chastised  by  the 
presence  of  household  order.  His  easy  disposition 
made  him  fall  in  unresistingly  with  the  family 
courses,  but  the  need  of  some  tender  permanent 
affection,  the  longing  for  some  iniluence  that  would 
make  the  good  he  preferred  easy  to  pursue,  caused 
the  neatness,  purity,  and  liberal  orderliness  of  the 
Lammeter  household,  sunned  by  the  smile  of 
Nancy,  to  seem  like  those  fresh  bright  hours  of 
the  morning  when  temptations  go  to  sleep  and 
leave  the  ear  open  to  the  voice  of  the  good  angel, 
inviting  to  industry,  sobriety,  and  peace.  And  yet 
the  hope  of  this  paradise  had  not  been  enough  to 
save  him  from  a  course  which  shut  him  out  of  it 
forever.  Instead  of  keeping  fast  hold  of  the  strong 
silken  rope  by  which  Nancy  would  have  drawn 
him  safe  to  the  green  banks  where  it  was  easy  to 
step  firmly,  he  had  let  himself  be  dragged  back  into 
mud  and  slime,  in  which  it  was  useless  to  struggle. 
He  had  made  ties  for  himself  which  robbed  him 
of  all  wholesome  motive  and  were  a  constant 
exasperation. 

Still,  there  w^as  one  position  worse  than  the 
present :  it  was  the  position  he  would  be  in  when 
the  ugly  secret  was  disclosed ;  and  the  desire  that 
continually  triumphed  over  every  other  was  that 
of  warding  off  the  evil  day,  when  he  would  have 
to  bear  the  consequences  of  his  father's  violent  re- 
sentment for  the  wound  inflicted  on  his  family 
pride,  —  would  have,  perhaps,  to  turn  his  back  on 
that  hereditary  ease  and  dignity  which,  after  all, 
was  a  sort  of  reason  for  living,  and  would  carry 


42  SILAS  MARNER. 

with  him  the  certainty  that  he  was  banished  for- 
ever from  the  sight  and  esteem  of  Nancy  Lammeter. 
The  longer  the  interval,  the  more  chance  there  was 
of  deliverance  from  some,  at  least,  of  the  hateful 
consequences  to  which  he  had  sold  himself;  the 
more  opportunities  remained  for  him  to  snatch  the 
strange  gratification  of  seeing  Nancy,  and  gather- 
ing some  faint  indications  of  her  lingering  regard. 
Towards  this  gratification  he  was  impelled,  fitfully, 
every  now  and  then,  after  having  passed  weeks  in 
which  he  had  avoided  her  as  the  far-off  bright- 
winged  prize  that  only  made  him  spring  forward 
and  find  his  chain  all  the  more  galling.  One  of 
those  fits  of  yearning  was  on  him  now,  and  it 
would  have  been  strong  enough  to  have  persuaded 
him  to  trust  Wildfire  to  Dunstan  rather  than  dis- 
appoint the  yearning,  even  if  he  had  not  had 
another  reason  for  his  disinclination  towards  the 
morrow's  hunt.  That  other  reason  was  the  fact 
that  the  morning's  meet  was  near  Batherley,  the 
market-town  where  the  unhappy  woman  lived 
whose  image  became  more  odious  to  him  every 
day;  and  to  his  thought  the  whole  vicinage  was 
haunted  by  her.  The  yoke  a  man  creates  for 
himself  by  wrong-doing  will  breed  hate  in  the 
kindliest  nature ;  and  the  good-humoured,  affec- 
tionate-hearted Godfrey  Cass  was  fast  becoming 
a  bitter  man,  visited  by  cruel  wishes,  that  seemed 
to  enter,  and  depart,  and  enter  again,  like  demons 
who  had  found  in  him  a  ready-garnished  home. 

What  was  he  to  do  this  evening  to  pass  the  time  ? 
He  might  as  well  go  to  the  Eainbow,  and  hear 
the  talk  about  the  cock-fighting :  everybody  was 
there,  and  what  else  was  there  to  be  done  ?  Though, 
for  his  own  part,  he  did  not  care  a  button  for  cock- 


SILAS  MARNER.  43 

fighting.  Snuff,  the  brown  spaniel,  who  had  placed 
herself  in  front  of  him,  and  had  been  watching  him 
for  some  time,  now  jumped  up  in  impatience  for 
the  expected  caress.  But  Godfrey  thrust  her  away 
without  looking  at  her,  and  left  the  room,  followed 
humbly  by  the  unresenting  Snuff,  —  perhaps  be- 
cause she  saw  no  other  career  open  to  her. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

DuNSTAN  Cass,  setting  off  in  the  raw  morning, 
at  the  judiciously  quiet  pace  of  a  man  who  is 
obliged  to  ride  to  cover  on  his  hunter,  had  to 
take  his  way  along  the  lane  which,  at  its  farther 
extremity,  passed  by  the  piece  of  unenclosed  ground 
called  the  Stone-pit,  where  stood  the  cottage,  once 
a  stone-cutter's  shed,  now  for  fifteen  years  inhabited 
by  Silas  Marner.  The  spot  looked  very  dreary  at 
this  season,  with  the  moist  trodden  clay  about  it, 
and  the  red,  muddy  water  high  up  in  the  deserted 
quarry.  That  was  Dunstan's  first  thought  as  he 
approached  it ;  the  second  was,  that  the  old  fool 
of  a  weaver,  whose  loom  he  heard  rattling  already, 
had  a  great  deal  of  money  hidden  somewhere.  How 
was  it  that  he,  Dunstan  Cass,  who  had  often  heard 
talk  of  Marner's  miserliness,  had  never  thought  of 
suggesting  to  Godfrey  that  he  should  frighten  or 
persuade  the  old  fellow  into  lending  the  money 
on  the  excellent  security  of  the  young  Squire's 
prospects  ?  The  resource  occurred  to  him  now  as 
so  easy  and  agreeable,  especially  as  Marner's  hoard 
was  likely  to  be  large  enough  to  leave  Godfrey  a 
handsome  surplus  beyond  his  immediate  needs, 
and  enable  him  to  accommodate  his  faithful  brother, 
that  he  had  almost  turned  the  horse's  head  towards 
home  again.  Godfrey  would  be  ready  enough  to 
accept  the  suggestion :  he  would  snatch  eagerly 
at  a  plan  that  might  save  him  from  parting  with 


SILAS  MARNER.  45 

Wildfire.  But  when  Dunstan's  meditation  reached 
this  point,  the  inclination  to  go  on  grew  strong 
and  prevailed.  He  did  n't  want  to  give  Godfrey 
that  pleasure:  he  preferred  that  Master  Go(ifrey 
should  be  vexed.  Moreover,  Dunstan  enjoyed  the 
self-important  consciousness  of  having  a  horse  to 
sell,  and  the  opportunity  of  driving  a  bargain, 
swaggering,  and  possibly  taking  somebody  in.  He 
might  have  all  the  satisfaction  attendant  on  sell- 
ing his  brother's  horse,  and  not  the  less  have  the 
further  satisfaction  of  setting  Godfrey  to  borrow 
Marner's  money.     So  he  rode  on  to  cover. 

Bryce  and  Keating  were  there,  as  Dunstan  was 
quite  sure  they  would  be,  —  he  was  such  a  lucky 
fellow. 

"Heyday!"  said  Bryce,  who  had  long  had  his 
eye  on  Wildfire,  "  you  're  on  your  brother's  horse 
to-day:  how's  that?" 

"Oh,  I've  swopped  with  him,"  said  Dunstan, 
whose  delight  in  lying,  grandly  independent  of 
utility,  was  not  to  be  diminished  by  the  likelihood 
that  his  hearer  would  not  believe  him,  — "  Wild- 
fire's  mine  now." 

"  What !  has  he  swopped  with  you  for  that  big- 
boned  hack  of  yours  ? "  said  Bryce,  quite  aware 
that  he  should  get  another  lie  in  answer. 

"  Oh,  there  was  a  little  account  between  us," 
said  Dunsey,  carelessly,  "  and  Wildfire  made  it 
even.  I  accommodated  him  by  taking  the  horse, 
though  it  was  against  my  will,  for  I  'd  got  an  itch 
for  a  mare  o'  Jortin's,  —  as  rare  a  bit  o'  blood  as 
ever  you  threw  your  leg  across.  But  I  shall  keep 
Wildfire,  now  I  've  got  him,  though  I  'd  a  bid  of  a 
hundred  and  fifty  for  him  the  other  day,  from  a 
man  over  at  Flitton,  —  he 's  buying  for  Lord  Crom- 


46  SILAS  MARNER. 

leek,  —  a  fellow  with  a  cast  in  his  eye,  and  a  green 
waistcoat.  But  T  mean  to  stick  to  Wildfire :  I  sha'n't 
get  a  better  at  a  fence  in  a  hurry.  The  mare's 
got  "more  blood,  but  she  's  a  bit  too  weak  in  the 
hind-quarters." 

Bryce  of  course  divined  that  Dunstan  wanted 
to  sell  the  horse,  and  Dunstan  knew  that  he  di- 
vined it  (horse-dealing  is  only  one  of  many  human 
transactions  carried  on  in  this  ingenious  manner)  ; 
and  they  both  considered  that  the  bargain  was  in 
its  first  stage,  when  Bryce  replied  ironically, — 

"  I  wonder  at  that  now ;  I  wonder  you  mean  to 
keep  him  ;  for  I  never  heard  of  a  man  who  did  n't 
want  to  sell  his  horse  getting  a  bid  of  half  as  much 
again  as  the  horse  was  worth.  You  '11  be  lucky  if 
you  get  a  hundred." 

Keating  rode  up  now,  and  the  transaction  became 
more  complicated.  It  ended  in  the  purchase  of  the 
horse  by  Bryce  for  a  hundred  and  twenty,  to  be 
paid  on  the  delivery  of  Wildfire,  safe  and  sound, 
at  the  Batherley  stables.  It  did  occur  to  Dunsey 
that  it  might  be  wise  for  him  to  give  up  the  day's 
hunting,  proceed  at  once  to  Batherley,  and,  having 
waited  for  Bryce's  return,  hire  a  horse  to  carry  him 
home  with  the  money  in  his  pocket.  But  the 
inclination  for  a  run,  encouraged  by  confidence  in 
his  luck,  and  by  a  draught  of  brandy  from  his 
pocket-pistol  at  the  conclusion  of  the  bargain,  was 
not  easy  to  overcome,  especially  with  a  horse  under 
him  that  would  take  the  fences  to  the  admiration 
of  the  field.  Dunstan,  however,  took  one  fence  too 
many,  and  got  his  horse  pierced  with  a  hedge-stake. 
His  own  ill-favoured  person,  which  was  quite  un- 
marketable, escaped  without  injury  ;  but  poor  Wild- 
fire, unconscious  of  his  price,  turned  on  his  flank, 


SILAS  MARNER.  47 

and  painfully  panted  his  last.  It  happened  that 
Dunstan,  a  short  time  before,  having  had  to  get 
down  to  arrange  his  stirrup,  had  muttered  a  good 
many  curses  at  this  interruption,  which  had  thrown 
him  in  the  rear  of  the  hunt  near  the  moment  of 
glory,  and  under  this  exasperation  had  taken  the 
fences  more  blindly.  He  would  soon  have  been  up 
with  the  hounds  again,  when  the  fatal  accident 
happened ;  and  hence  he  was  between  eager  riders 
in  advance,  not  troubling  themselves  about  what 
happened  behind  them,  and  far-off  stragglers,  who 
were  as  likely  as  not  to  pass  quite  aloof  from  the 
line  of  road  in  which  Wildfire  had  fallen.  Dun- 
stan, whose  nature  it  was  to  care  more  for  immediate 
annoyances  than  for  remote  consequences,  no  sooner 
recovered  his  legs,  and  saw  that  it  was  all  over 
with  Wildfire,  than  he  felt  a  satisfaction  at  the 
absence  of  witnesses  to  a  position  which  no  swag- 
gering could  make  enviable.  Reinforcing  himself, 
after  his  shake,  with  a  little  brandy  and  much 
swearing,  he  walked  as  fast  as  he  could  to  a  coppice 
on  his  right  hand,  through  which  it  occurred  to 
him  that  he  could  make  his  way  to  Batherley  with- 
out danger  of  encountering  any  member  of  the 
hunt.  His  first  intention  was  to  hire  a  horse  there 
and  ride  home  forthwith,  for  to  walk  many  miles 
without  a  gun  in  his  hand  and  along  an  ordinary 
road  was  as  much  out  of  the  question  to  him  as  to 
other  spirited  young  men  of  his  kind.  He  did  not 
much  mind  about  taking  the  bad  news  to  Godfrey, 
for  he  had  to  offer  him  at  the  same  time  the  re- 
source of  Marner's  money ;  and  if  Godfrey  kicked, 
as  he  always  did,  at  the  notion  of  making  a  fresh 
debt  from  which  he  himself  got  the  smallest  share 
of  advantage,  why,  he  wouldn't  kick  long:  Dun- 


48  SILAS  MARNER. 

Stan  felt  sure  he  could  worry  Godfrey  into  any- 
thing. The  idea  of  Marner's  money  kept  growing 
in  vividness,  now  the  want  of  it  had  become  im- 
mediate; the  prospect  of  having  to  make  his  ap- 
pearance with  the  muddy  boots  of  a  pedestrian  at 
Batherley,  and  to  encounter  the  grinning  queries 
of  stable-men,  stood  unpleasantly  in  the  way  of  his 
impatience  to  be  back  at  Eaveloe  and  carry  out  his 
felicitous  plan  ;  and  a  casual  visitation  of  his  waist- 
coat-pocket, as  he  was  ruminating,  awakened  his 
memory  to  the  fact  that  the  two  or  three  small 
coins  his  forefinger  encountered  there,  were  of  too 
pale  a  colour  to  cover  that  small  debt  without  pay- 
ment of  which  the  stable-keeper  had  declared  he 
would  never  do  any  more  business  with  Dunsey 
Cass.  After  all,  according  to  the  direction  in  which 
the  run  had  brought  him,  he  was  not  so  very  much 
farther  from  home  than  he  was  from  Batherley; 
but  Dunsey,  not  being  remarkable  for  clearness  of 
head,  was  only  led  to  this  conclusion  by  the  gradual 
perception  that  there  were  other  reasons  for  choos- 
ing the  unprecedented  course  of  walking  home.  It 
was  now  nearly  four  o'clock,  and  a  mist  was  gather- 
ing; the  sooner  he  got  into  the  road  the  better. 
He  remembered  having  crossed  the  road  and  seen 
the  finger-post  only  a  little  while  before  Wildfire 
broke  down  ;  so,  buttoning  his  coat,  twisting  the 
lash  of  his  hunting-whip  compactly  round  the 
handle,  and  rapping  the  tops  of  his  boots  with  a 
self-possessed  air,  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  he 
was  not  at  all  taken  by  surprise,  he  set  off  with 
the  sense  that  he  was  undertaking  a  remarkable 
feat  of  bodily  exertion,  which  somehow  and  at  some 
time  he  should  be  able  to  dress  up  and  magnify  to 
the  admiration  of  a  select  circle  at  the   Eainbow. 


SILAS  MARNER.  49 

When  a  young  gentleman  like  Dunsey  is  reduced 
to  so  exceptional  a  mode  of  locomotion  as  walking, 
a  whip  in  his  hand  is  a  desirable  corrective  to  a  too 
bewildering  dreamy  sense  of  unwoutedness  in  his 
position ;  and  Dunstan,  as  he  went  along  through 
the  gathering  mist,  was  always  rapping  his  whip 
somewhere.  It  was  Godfrey's  whip,  which  he  had 
chosen  to  take  without  leave  because  it  had  a  gold 
handle  ;  of  course  no  one  could  see,  when  Dunstan 
held  it,  that  the  name  Godfrey  Cass  was  cut  in 
deep  letters  on  that  gold  handle,  —  they  could  only 
see  that  it  was  a  very  handsome  whip.  Dunsey  was 
not  without  fear  that  he  might  meet  some  acquaint- 
ance in  whose  eyes  he  would  cut  a  pitiable  figure, 
for  mist  is  no  screen  when  people  get  close  to  each 
other ;  but  when  he  at  last  found  himself  in  the 
well-known  Raveloe  lanes  without  having  met  a 
soul  he  silently  remarked  that  that  was  part  of  his 
usual  good-lack.  But  now  the  mist,  helped  by  the 
evening  darkness,  was  more  of  a  screen  than  he 
desired,  for  it  hid  the  ruts  into  which  his  feet  were 
liable  to  slip,  —  hid  everything,  so  that  he  had  to 
guide  his  steps  by  dragging  his  whip  along  the  low 
bushes  in  advance  of  the  hedgerov/.  He  must  soon, 
he  thought,  be  getthig  near  the  opening  at  the 
Stone-pits :  he  should  find  it  out  by  the  break  in 
the  hedgerow.  He  found  it  out,  however,  by  an- 
other circumstance  which  he  had  not  expected,  — 
namely,  by  certain  gleams  of  light,  which  he  pres- 
ently guessed  to  proceed  from  Silas  Marner's  cot- 
tage. That  cottage  and  the  money  hidden  within  it 
had  been  in  his  mind  continually  during  his  walk, 
and  he  had  been  imagining  ways  of  cajoling  and 
tempting  the  weaver  to  part  with  the  immediate 
possession  of  his  money  for  the  sake  of  receiving 


50  SILAS  MARNER. 

interest.  Dunstan  felt  as  if  there  must  be  a  little 
frightening  added  to  the  cajolery,  for  his  own  arith- 
metical convictions  were  not  clear  enough  to  afford 
him  any  forcible  demonstration  as  to  the  advan- 
tages of  interest ;  and  as  for  security,  he  regarded  it 
vaguely  as  a  means  of  cheating  a  man  by  making 
him  believe  that  he  would  be  paid.  Altogether,  the 
operation  on  the  miser's  mind  was  a  task  that  God- 
frey would  be  sure  to  hand  over  to  his  more  daring 
and  cunning  brother :  Dunstan  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  that ;  and  by  the  time  he  saw  the  light 
gleaming  through  the  chinks  of  Marner's  shutters, 
the  idea  of  a  dialogue  with  the  weaver  had  become 
so  familiar  to  him  that  it  occurred  to  him  as  quite 
a  natural  thing  to  make  the  acquaintance  forth- 
with. There  might  be  several  conveniences  attend- 
ing this  course :  the  weaver  had  possibly  got  a 
lantern,  and  Dunstan  was  tired  of  feeling  his  way. 
He  was  still  nearly  three  quarters  of  a  mile  from 
home,  and  the  lane  was  becoming  unpleasantly 
slippery,  for  the  mist  was  passing  into  rain.  He 
turned  up  the  bank,  not  without  some  fear  lest  he 
might  miss  the  right  way,  since  he  was  not  certain 
whether  the  light  were  in  front  or  on  the  side  of 
the  cottage.  But  he  felt  the  ground  before  him 
cautiously  with  his  whip-handle,  and  at  last  arrived 
safely  at  the  door.  He  knocked  loudly,  rather 
enjoying  the  idea  that  the  old  fellow  would  be 
frightened  at  the  sudden  noise.  He  heard  no  move- 
ment in  reply :  all  was  silence  in  the  cottage.  Was 
the  weaver  gone  to  bed,  then  ?  If  so,  why  had  he 
left  a  light  ?  That  was  a  strange  f  orgetf ulness  in 
a  miser.  Dunstan  knocked  still  more  loudly,  and, 
without  pausing  for  a  reply,  pushed  his  fingers 
through  the  latch-hole,  intending  to  shake  the  door 


SILAS  MARNER.  51 

and  pull  the  latch-string  up  and  down,  not  doubt- 
ing that  the  door  was  fastened.  But,  to  his  sur- 
prise, at  this  double  motion  the  door  opened,  and 
he  found  himself  in  front  of  a  bright  fire  wliich  lit 
up  every  corner  of  the  cottage,  —  the  bed,  the  loom, 
the  three  chairs,  and  the  table,  —  and  showed  him 
that  Marner  was  not  there. 

Nothing  at  that  moment  could  be  much  more 
inviting  to  Dunsey  than  the  bright  fire  on  the  brick 
hearth :  he  walked  in  and  seated  himself  by  it  at 
once.  There  was  something  in  front  of  the  fire,  too, 
that  would  have  been  inviting  to  a  hungry  man,  if 
it  had  been  in  a  different  stage  of  cooking.  It  was 
a  small  bit  of  pork  suspended  from  the  kettle-han- 
ger by  a  string  passed  through  a  large  door-key,  in  a 
way  known  to  primitive  housekeepers  unpossessed 
of  jacks.  But  the  pork  had  been  hung  at  the  farthest 
extremity  of  the  hanger,  apparently  to  prevent  the 
roasting  from  proceeding  too  rapidly  during  the 
owner's  absence.  The  old  staring  simpleton  had 
hot  meat  for  his  supper,  then  ?  thought  Dunstan. 
People  had  always  said  he  lived  on  mouldy  bread, 
on  purpose  to  check  his  appetite.  But  where  could 
he  be  at  this  time,  and  on  such  an  evening,  leaving 
his  supper  in  this  stage  of  preparation,  and  his  door 
unfastened?  Dunstan's  own  recent  difficulty  in 
making  his  way  suggested  to  him  that  the  weaver 
had  perhaps  gone  outside  his  cottage  to  fetch  in  fuel, 
or  for  some  such  brief  purpose,  and  had  slipped  into 
the  Stone-pit.  That  was  an  interesting  idea  to  Dun- 
stan, carrying  consequences  of  entire  novelty.  If 
the  weaver  was  dead,  who  had  a  right  to  his  money  ? 
Who  would  know  where  his  money  was  hidden  ? 
WJio  would  know  that  anyhody  had  come  to  take  it 
away  ?    He  went  no  farther  into  the  subtleties  of 


52  SILAS  MARNER. 

evidence :  the  pressing  question,  "  Where  is  the 
money  ? "  now  took  such  entire  possession  of  him 
as  to  make  him  quite  forget  that  the  weaver's  death 
was  not  a  certainty.  A  dull  mind,  once  arriving  at 
an  inference  that  flatters  a  desire,  is  rarely  able  to 
retain  the  impression  that  the  notion  from  which 
the  inference  started  was  purely  problematic.  And 
Dunstan's  mind  was  as  dull  as  the  mind  of  a  pos- 
sible felon  usually  is.  There  were  only  three  hiding- 
places  where  lie  had  ever  heard  of  cottagers'  hoards 
being  found :  the  thatch,  the  bed,  and  a  hole  in  the 
floor.  Marner's  cottage  had  no  thatch ;  and  Dun- 
stan's first  act,  after  a  train  of  thought  made  rapid 
by  the  stimulus  of  cupidity,  was  to  go  up  to  the  bed  ; 
but  while  he  did  so,  his  eyes  travelled  eagerly  over 
the  floor,  where  the  bricks,  distinct  in  the  fire- 
light, were  discernible  under  the  sprinkling  of  sand. 
But  not  everywhere ;  for  there  was  one  spot,  and 
one  only,  which  was  quite  covered  with  sand,  and 
sand  showing  the  marks  of  fingers,  which  had 
apparently  been  careful  to  spread  it  over  a  given 
space.  It  was  near  the  treadles  of  the  loom.  In 
an  instant  Dunstan  darted  to  that  spot,  swept 
away  the  sand  with  his  whip,  and,  inserting  the 
thin  end  of  the  hook  between  the  bricks,  found  that 
they  were  loose.  In  haste  he  lifted  up  two  bricks, 
and  saw  what  he  had  no  doubt  was  the  object  of  his 
search ;  for  what  could  there  be  but  money  in  those 
two  leathern  bags  ?  And,  from  their  weight,  they 
must  be  filled  with  guineas.  Dunstan  felt  round 
the  hole,  to  be  certain  that  it  held  no  more ;  then 
hastily  replaced  the  bricks,  and  spread  the  sand  over 
them.  Hardly  more  than  five  minutes  had  passed 
since  he  entered  the  cottage,  but  it  seemed  to  Dunstan 
like  a  long  while ;  and  though  he  was  without  any 


SILAS  MARNER.  53 

distinct  recognition  of  the  possibility  that  Marner 
might  be  alive,  and  might  re-enter  the  cottage  at  any 
moment,  he  felt  an  undefinable  dread  laying  hold  on 
him,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet  with  the  bags  in  his 
hand.  He  would  hasten  out  into  the  darkness,  and 
then  consider  what  he  should  do  with  the  bags. 
He  closed  the  door  behind  him  immediately,  that  he 
might  shut  in  the  stream  of  light :  a  few  steps  would 
be  enough  to  carry  him  beyond  betrayal  by  the 
gleams  from  the  shutter-chinks  and  the  latch-hole. 
The  rain  and  darkness  had  got  thicker,  and  he  was 
glad  of  it ;  though  it  was  awkward  walking  with 
both  hands  filled,  so  that  it  was  as  much  as  he 
could  do  to  grasp  his  whip  along  with  one  of  the 
bags.  But  when  he  had  gone  a  yard  or  two,  he 
might  take  his  time.  So  he  stepped  forward  into 
the  darkness. 


CHAPTEE  V. 

When  Dunstan  Cass  turned  his  back  on  the  cottage, 
Silas  Marner  was  not  more  than  a  hundred  yards 
away  from  it,  plodding  along  from  the  village  with 
a  sack  thrown  round  his  shoulders  as  an  overcoat, 
and  with  a  horn  lantern  in  his  hand.  His  legs 
were  weary,  but  his  mind  was  at  ease,  free  from  the 
presentiment  of  change.  The  sense  of  security 
more  frequently  springs  from  habit  than  from  con- 
viction, and  for  this  reason  it  often  subsists  after 
such  a  change  in  the  conditions  as  might  have  been 
expected  to  suggest  alarm.  The  lapse  of  time  dur- 
ing which  a  given  event  has  not  happened  is,  in 
this  logic  of  habit,  constantly  alleged  as  a  reason 
why  the  event  should  never  happen,  even  when  the 
lapse  of  time  is  precisely  the  added  condition  which 
makes  the  event  imminent.  A  man  will  tell  you 
that  he  has  worked  in  a  mine  for  forty  years  unhurt 
by  an  accident  as  a  reason  why  he  should  appre- 
hend no  danger,  though  the  roof  is  beginning  to 
sink  ;  and  it  is  often  observable  that  the  older  a 
man  gets,  the  more  difficult  it  is  to  him  to  retain 
a  believing  conception  of  his  own  death.  This 
influence  of  habit  was  necessarily  strong  in  a  man 
whose  life  was  so  monotonous  as  Marner' s,  —  who 
saw  no  new  people  and  heard  of  no  new  events  to 
keep  alive  in  him  the  idea  of  the  unexpected  and 
the  changeful;  and  it  explains  simply  enough  why 
his  mind  could  be  at  ease,  though  he  had  left  his 
house  and  his  treasure  more  defenceless  than  usual. 


SILAS  MARKER.  55 

Silas  was  thinking  with  double  complacency  of  his 
supper  :  first,  because  it  would  be  hot  and  savoury  ; 
and  secondly,  because  it  would  cost  him  nothing. 
For  the  little  bit  of  pork  was  a  present  from  that 
excellent  housewife.  Miss  Priscilla  Lammeter,  to 
whom  he  had  this  day  carried  home  a  handsome 
piece  of  linen ;  and  it  was  only  on  occasion  of  a 
present  like  this,  that  Silas  indulged  himself  with 
roast  meat.  Supper  was  his  favourite  meal,  because 
it  came  at  his  time  of  revelry,  when  his  heart 
warmed  over  his  gold ;  whenever  he  had  roast  meat, 
he  always  chose  to  have  it  for  supper.  But  this 
evening,  he  had  no  sooner  ingeniously  knotted  his 
string  fast  round  his  bit  of  pork,  twisted  the  string 
according  to  rule  over  his  door-key,  passed  it  through 
the  handle,  and  made  it  fast  on  the  hanger,  than  he 
remembered  that  a  piece  of  very  fine  twine  was 
indispensable  to  his  "setting  up"  a  new  piece  of 
work  in  his  loom  early  in  the  morning.  It  had 
slipped  his  memory,  because,  in  coming  from  Mr. 
Lammeter's,  he  had  not  had  to  pass  through  the  vil- 
lage ;  but  to  lose  time  by  going  on  errands  in  the  morn- 
ing was  out  of  the  question.  It  was  a  nasty  fog  to 
turn  out  into,  but  there  were  things  Silas  loved  better 
than  his  own  comfort;  so,  drawing  his  pork  to  the  ex- 
tremity of  the  hanger,  and  arming  himself  with  his 
lantern  and  his  old  sack,  he  set  out  on  what,  in 
ordinary  weather,  would  have  been  a  twenty  min- 
utes' errand.  He  could  not  have  locked  his  door 
without  undoing  his  well-knotted  string  and  re- 
tarding his  supper ;  it  was  not  worth  his  while  to 
make  that  sacrifice.  What  thief  would  find  his  way 
to  the  Stone-pits  on  such  a  night  as  this  ?  and  why 
should  he  come  on  this  particular  night,  when  he 
had  never  come   through  all  the  fifteen  years  be- 


S6  SILAS  MARNER. 

fore  ?  These  questions  were  not  distinctly  present 
in  Silas's  mind ;  they  merely  serve  to  represent 
the  vaguely  felt  foundation  of  his  freedom  from 
anxiety. 

He  reached  his  door  in  much  satisfaction  that 
his  errand  was  done :  he  opened  it,  and  to  his  short- 
sighted eyes  everything  remained  as  he  had  left  it, 
except  that  the  fire  sent  out  a  welcome  increase  of 
heat.  He  trod  about  the  floor  while  putting  by  his 
lantern  and  throwing  aside  his  hat  and  sack,  so  as 
to  merge  the  marks  of  Dunstan's  feet  on  the  sand  in 
the  marks  of  his  own  nailed  boots.  Then  he  moved 
his  pork  nearer  to  the  fire,  and  sat  down  to  the 
agreeable  business  of  tending  the  meat  and  warming 
himself  at  the  same  time. 

Any  one  who  had  looked  at  him  as  the  red  light 
shone  upon  his  pale  face,  strange  straining  eyes, 
and  meagre  form,  would  perhaps  have  understood 
the  mixture  of  contemptuous  pity,  dread,  and  sus- 
picion with  which  he  was  regarded  by  his  neigh- 
bours in  Eaveloe.  Yet  few  men  could  be  more 
harmless  than  poor  Marner.  In  his  truthful  simple 
soul,  not  even  the  growing  greed  and  worship  of 
gold  could  beget  any  vice  directly  injurious  to  others. 
The  light  of  his  faith  quite  put  out,  and  his  affec- 
tions made  desolate,  he  had  clung  with  all  the  force 
of  his  nature  to  his  work  and  his  money ;  and  like  all 
objects  to  which  a  man  devotes  himself,  they  had 
fashioned  him  into  correspondence  with  themselves. 
His  loom,  as  he  wrought  in  it  without  ceasing,  had 
in  its  turn  wrought  on  him,  and  confirmed  more 
and  more  the  monotonous  craving  for  its  monoto- 
nous response.  His  gold,  as  he  hung  over  it  and 
saw  it  grow,  gathered  his  power  of  loving  together 
into  a  hard  isolation  like  its  own. 


SILAS  MARNER.  57 

As  soon  as  he  was  warm  he  began  to  think  it 
would  be  a  long  while  to  wait  till  after  supper  be- 
fore he  drew  out  his  guineas,  and  it  would  be  pleas- 
ant to  see  them  on  the  table  before  him  as  he  ate 
his  unwonted  feast.  For  joy  is  the  best  of  wine, 
and  Silas's  guineas  were  a  golden  wine  of  that 
sort. 

He  rose  and  placed  his  candle  unsuspectingly  on 
the  floor  near  his  loom,  swept  away  the  sand  with- 
out noticing  any  change,  and  removed  the  bricks. 
The  sight  of  the  empty  hole  made  his  heart  leap 
violently,  but  the  belief  that  his  gold  was  gone 
could  not  come  at  once,  —  only  terror,  and  the 
eager  effort  to  put  an  end  to  the  terror.  He  passed 
his  trembliug  hand  all  about  the  hole,  trying  to 
think  it  possible  that  his  eyes  had  deceived  him ; 
then  he  held  the  candle  in  the  hole  and  examined 
it-  curiously,  trembling  more  and  more.  At  last 
he  shook  so  violently  that  he  let  fall  the  candle, 
and  lifted  his  hands  to  his  head,  trying  to  steady 
himself,  that  he  might  think.  Had  he  put  his  gold 
somewhere  else,  by  a  sudden  resolution  last  night, 
and  then  forgotten  it  ?  A  man  falling  into  dark 
waters  seeks  a  momentary  footing  even  on  sliding 
stones  ;  and  Silas,  by  acting  as  if  he  believed  in 
false  hopes,  warded  off  the  moment  of  despair. 
He  searched  in  every  corner,  he  turned  his  bed  over, 
and  shook  it,  and  kneaded  it ;  he  looked  in  his 
brick  oven  where  he  laid  his  sticks.  When  there 
was  no  other  place  to  be  searched,  he  kneeled  down 
again  and  felt  once  more  all  round  the  hole.  There 
was  no  untried  refuge  left  for  a  moment's  shelter 
from  the  terrible  truth. 

Yes,  there  was  a  sort  of  refuge  which  always 
comes  with  the  prostration  of   thought  under  an 


$8  SILAS  MAENER. 

overpowering  passion :  it  was  that  expectation  of 
impossibilities,  that  belief  in  contradictory  images, 
which  is  still  distinct  from  madness,  because  it  is 
capable  of  being  dissipated  by  the  external  fact. 
Silas  got  up  from  his  knees  trembling,  and  looked 
round  at  the  table  ;  didn't  the  gold  lie  there  after 
all  ?  The  table  was  bare.  Then  he  turned  and 
looked  behind  him,  — looked  all  round  his  dwelling, 
seeming  to  strain  his  brown  eyes  after  some  pos- 
sible appearance  of  the  bags  where  he  had  already 
sought  them  in  vain.  He  could  see  every  object  in 
his  cottage,  —  and  his  gold  was  not  there. 

Again  he  put  his  trembling  hands  to  his  head, 
and  gave  a  wild  ringing  scream,  the  cry  of  desola- 
tion. For  a  few  moments  after,  he  stood  motionless ; 
but  the  cry  had  relieved  him  from  the  first  madden- 
ing pressure  of  the  truth.  He  turned,  and  tottered 
towards  his  loom,  and  got  into  the  seat  where  he 
worked,  instinctively  seeking  this  as  the  strongest 
assurance  of  reality. 

And  now  that  all  the  false  hopes  had  vanished, 
and  the  first  shock  of  certainty  was  past,  the  idea 
of  a  thief  began  to  present  itself,  and  he  entertained 
it  eagerly,  because  a  thief  might  be  caught  and  made 
to  restore  the  gold.  The  thought  brought  some 
new  strength  with  it,  and  he  started  from  his  loom 
to  the  door.  As  he  opened  it,  the  rain  beat  in 
upon  him,  for  it  was  falling  more  and  more  heavily. 
There  were  no  footsteps  to  be  tracked  on  such  a 
night,  —  footsteps?  When  had  the  thief  come? 
During  Silas's  absence  in  the  daytime  the  door  had 
been  locked,  and  there  had  been  no  marks  of  any 
inroad  on  his  return  by  daylight.  And  in  the 
evening,  too,  he  said  to  himself,  everything  was  the 
same  as  when  he  had  left  it.     The  sand  and  bricks 


SILAS  MARKER.  59 

looked  as  if  they  had  not  been  moved.  Was  it  a 
thief  who  had  taken  the  bags  ?  or  was  it  a  cruel 
power  that  no  hands  could  reach  which  had  de- 
lighted in  making  Mm  a  second  time  desolate  ?  He 
shrank  from  this  vaguer  dread,  and  fixed  his  mind 
with  struggling  effort  on  the  robber  with  hands, 
who  could  be  reached  by  hands.  His  thoughts 
glanced  at  all  the  neighbours  who  had  made  any 
remarks,  or  asked  any  questions  which  he  might 
now  regard  as  a  ground  of  suspicion.  There  was 
Jem  Eodney,  a  known  poacher,  and  otherwise  dis- 
reputable :  he  had  often  met  Marner  in  his  journeys 
across  the  fields,  and  had  said  something  jestingly 
about  the  weaver's  money ;  nay,  he  had  once  irri- 
tated Marner,  by'  lingering  at  the  fire  when  he 
called  to  light  his  pipe,  instead  of  going  about  his 
business.  Jem  Eodney  was  the  man,  —  there  was 
ease  in  the  thought.  Jem  could  be  found  and  made 
to  restore  the  money :  Marner  did  not  want  to 
punish  him,  but  only  to  get  back  his  gold  which 
had  gone  from  him,  and  left  his  soul  like  a  forlorn 
traveller  on  an  unknown  desert.  The  robber  must 
be  laid  hold  of.  Marner's  ideas  of  legal  authority- 
were  confused,  but  he  felt  that  he  must  go  and  pro- 
claim his  loss ;  and  the  great  people  in  the  village 
—  the  clergyman,  the  constable,  and  Squire  Cass  — 
w^ould  make  Jem  Eodney,  or  somebody  else,  deliver 
up  the  stolen  money.  He  rushed  out  in  the  rain, 
under  the  stimulus  of  this  hope,  forgetting  to  cover 
his  head,  not  caring  to  fasten  his  door ;  for  he  felt 
as  if  he  had  nothing  left  to  lose.  He  ran  swiftly, 
till  want  of  breath  compelled  him  to  slacken  his 
pace  as  he  was  entering  the  village  at  the  turning 
close  to  the  Eainbow. 

The  Eambow,  in  Marner's  view,  was  a  place  of 


6o  SILAS  MARNER. 

luxurious  resort  for  rich  and  stout  husbands,  whose 
wives  had  superfluous  stores  of  hnen  :  it  was  the 
place  where  he  was  likely  to  find  the  powers  and 
dignities  of  Raveloe,  and  where  he  could  most 
speedily  make  his  loss  public.  He  lifted  the  latch, 
and  turned  into  the  bright  bar  or  kitchen  on  the 
right  hand,  where  the  less  lofty  customers  of  the 
house  were  in  the  habit  of  assembling,  the  parlour 
on  the  left  being  reserved  for  the  more  select  society 
in  which  Squire  Cass  frequently  enjoyed  the  double 
pleasure  of  conviviality  and  condescension.  But 
the  parlour  was  dark  to-night,  the  chief  personages 
who  ornamented  its  circle  being  all  at  Mrs.  Osgood's 
birthday  dance,  as  Godfrey  Cass  was.  And  in  con- 
sequence of  this,  the  party  on  the  high-screened 
seats  in  the  kitchen  was  more  numerous  than 
usual;  several  personages,  who  would  otherwise 
have  been  admitted  into  the  parlour  and  enlarged 
the  opportunity  of  hectoring  and  condescension  for 
their  betters,  being  content  this  evening  to  vary 
their  enjoyment  by  taking  their  spirits-and- water 
where  they  could  themselves  hector  and  condescend 
in  company  that  called  for  beer. 


CHAPTEE  VI. 

The  conversation,  which  was  at  a  high  pitch  of 
animation  when  Silas  approached  the  door  of  the 
Eainbow,  had,  as  usual,  been  slow  and  intermittent 
when  the  company  first  assembled.  The  pipes 
began  to  be  puffed  in  a  silence  which  had  an  air 
of  severity ;  the  more  important  customers,  who 
drank  spirits  and  sat  nearest  the  fire,  staring  at 
each  other  as  if  a  bet  were  depending  on  the  first 
man  who  winked ;  while  the  beer-drinkers,  chiefly 
men  in  fustian  jackets  and  smock-frocks,  kept  their 
eyelids  down  and  rubbed  their  hands  across  their 
mouths,  as  if  their  draughts  of  beer  were  a  funereal 
duty  attended  with  embarrassing  sadness.  At  last, 
Mr.  Snell,  the  landlord,  a  man  of  a  neutral  disposi- 
tion, accustomed  to  stand  aloof  from  human  differ- 
ences as  those  of  beings  who  were  all  alike  in  need 
of  liquor,  broke  silence,  by  saying  in  a  doubtful  tone 
to  his  cousin  the  butcher, — 

"  Some  folks  'ud  say  that  was  a  fine  beast  you 
druv  in  yesterday,  Bob  ? " 

The  butcher,  a  jolly,  smiling,  red-haired  man,  was 
not  disposed  to  answer  rashly.  He  gave  a  few  puffs 
before  he  spat  and  replied,  "  And  they  would  n't  be 
fur  wrong,  John." 

After  this  feeble  delusive  thaw,  the  silence  set 
in  as  severely  as  before. 

"  Was  it  a  red  Durham  ? "  said  the  farrier,  taking 
up  the  thread  of  discourse  after  the  lapse  of  a  few 
minutes. 


62  SILAS  MARNER. 

The  farrier  looked  at  the  landlord,  and  the  land- 
lord looked  at  the  butcher,  as  the  person  who  must 
take  the  responsibility  of  answering. 

"  Eed  it  was,"  said  the  butcher,  in  his  good- 
humoured  husky  treble,  — "  and  a  Durham  it 
was." 

"  Then  you  need  n't  tell  me  who  you  bought  it 
of,"  said  the  farrier,  looking  round  with  some  tri- 
umph ;  "  I  know  who  it  is  has  got  the  red  Durhams 
o'  this  country-side.  And  she  'd  a  white  star  on 
her  brow,  I  '11  bet  a  penny  ? "  The  farrier  leaned 
forward  with  his  hands  on  his  knees  as  he  put  this 
question,  and  his  eyes  twinkled  knowingly. 

"  Well ;  yes,  —  she  might,"  said  the  butcher, 
slowly,  considering  that  he  was  giving  a  decided 
affirmative.     "I  don't  say  contrairy." 

"  I  knew  that  very  well,"  said  the  farrier,  throw- 
ing himself  backward  again,  and  speaking  defiantly  ; 
"  if  /  don't  know  Mr.  Lammeter's  cows,  I  should 
like  to  know  who  does,  —  that 's  all.  And  as  for 
the  cow  you  've  bought,  bargain  or  no  bargain,  I  've 
been  at  the  drenching  of  her,  —  contradick  me 
who  will." 

The  farrier  looked  fierce,  and  the  mild  butcher's 
conversational  spirit  was  roused  a  little. 

"  I  'm  not  for  contradicking  no  man,"  he  said ; 
"  I  'm  for  peace  and  quietness.  Some  are  for  cutting 
long  ribs,  —  I  'm  for  cutting  'em  short  myself  ;  but 
/  don't  quarrel  with  'em.  All  I  say  is,  it 's  a  lovely 
carkiss,  —  and  anybody  as  was  reasonable,  it  'ud 
bring  tears  into  their  eyes  to  look  at  it." 

"Well,  it 's  the  cow  as  I  drenched,  whatever  it  is," 
pursued  the  farrier,  angrily ;  "  and  it  was  Mr. 
Lammeter's  cow,  else  you  told  a  lie  when  you  said 
it  was  a  red  Durham." 


SILAS  MARNER.  63 

"  I  tell  no  lies,"  said  the  butcher,  with  the  same 
mild  huskiness  as  before,  "  and  I  contradick  none, 
—  not  if  a  man  was  to  swear  himself  black :  he  's 
no  meat  0'  mine,  nor  none  0'  my  bargains.  All  I 
say  is,  it 's  a  lovely  carkiss.  And  what  I  say  I  '11 
stick  to;  but  I'll  quarrel  wi'  no  man," 

"  No,"  said  the  farrier,  with  bitter  sarcasm,  look- 
ing at  the  company  generally;  "and  p'rhaps  you 
ar'n't  pig-headed;  and  p'rhaps  you  didn't  say  the 
cow  was  a  red  Durham ;  and  p'rhaps  you  did  n't  say 
she'd  got  a  star  on  her  brow,  —  stick  to  that,  now 
you're  at  it." 

"  Come,  come,"  said  the  landlord ;  "  let  the  cow 
alone.  The  truth  lies  atw^een  you :  you  're  both 
right  and  both  wrong,  as  I  allays  say.  And  as  for 
the  cow's  being  Mr.  Lammeter's,  I  say  nothing  to 
that ;  but  this  1  say,  as  the  Eainbow  's  the  Eainbow. 
And  for  the  matter  o'  that,  if  the  talk  is  to  be  0'  the 
Lammeters,  you  know  the  most  upo'  that  head,  eh, 
Mr.  Macey  ?  You  remember  when  first  Mr.  Lam- 
meter's father  come  into  these  parts,  and  took  the 
Warrens  ? " 

Mr.  Macey,  tailor  and  parish-clerk,  the  latter  of 
which  functions  rheumatism  had  of  late  obliged 
him  to  share  with  a  small-featured  young  man  who 
sat  opposite  him,  held  his  white  head  on  one  side, 
and  twirled  his  thumbs  with  an  air  of  complacency, 
slightly  seasoned  with  criticism.  He  smiled  pity- 
ingly, in  answer  to  the  landlord's  appeal,  and  said,  — 

"  Ay,  ay ;  I  know^,  I  know  ;  but  I  let  other  folks 
talk.  I  've  laid  by  now,  and  gev  up  to  the  young 
uns.  Ask  them  as  have  been  to  school  at  Tarley : 
they  've  learnt  pernouncing ;  that 's  come  up  since 
my  day." 

"  If  you  're  pointing  at  me,  Mr.  Macey,"  said  the 


64  SILAS  MARNER. 

deputy-clerk,  with  an  air  of  anxious  propriety, 
"  I  'm  nowise  a  man  to  speak  out  of  my  place.  As 
the  psalm  says,  — 

'  I  know  what 's  right,  nor  only  so, 
But  also  practise  what  I  know.'  " 

"  Well,  then,  I  wish  you  'd  keep  hold  o'  the  tune, 
when  it 's  set  for  you ;  if  you  're  for  prac^mng,  I 
wish  you  'd  prac^'se  that,"  said  a  large  jocose-look- 
ing man,  an  excellent  wheelwright  m  his  week-day 
capacity,  but  on  Sundays  leader  of  the  choir.  He 
winked,  as  he  spoke,  at  two  of  the  company,  who 
were  known  officially  as  the  '•  bassoon "  and  the 
"  key-bugle,"  in  the  confidence  that  he  was  express- 
ing the  sense  of  the  musical  profession  in  Eaveloe. 

Mr.  Tookey,  the  deputy-clerk,  who  shared  the 
unpopularity  common  to  deputies,  turned  very  red, 
but  replied,  with  careful  moderation :  "  Mr.  Win- 
throp,  if  you  '11  bring  me  any  proof  as  I  'm  in  the 
wrong,  I  'm  not  the  man  to  say  I  won't  alter.  But 
there 's  people  set  up  their  own  ears  for  a  standard, 
and  expect  the  whole  choir  to  follow  'em.  There 
may  be  two  opinions,  I  hope." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  who  felt  very  well 
satisfied  with  this  attack  on  youthful  presumption  ; 
"  you  're  right  there,  Tookey  :  there 's  allays  two 
'pinions;  there's  the  'pinion  a  man  has  of  himsen, 
and  there  's  the  'pinion  other  folks  have  on  him. 
There  'd  be  two  'pinions  about  a  cracked  bell,  if  the 
bell  could  hear  itself." 

"Well,  Mr.  Macey,"  said  poor  Tookey,  serious 
amidst  the  general  laughter,  "  I  undertook  to  par- 
tially fill  up  the  office  of  parish-clerk  by  Mr.  Crack- 
enthorp's  desire,  whenever  your  infirmities  should 
make   you   unfitting;  and   it's   one   of   the   rights 


SILAS  MARNER.  65 

thereof  to  sing  in  the  clioir,  —  else  why  have  you 
done  the  same  yourself  ? " 

"  Ah !  but  the  old  gentleman  and  you  are  two 
folks,"  said  Ben  Winthrop.  "  The  old  gentleman 's 
got  a  gift.  Why,  the  Squire  used  to  invite  him  to 
take  a  glass,  only  to  hear  him  sing  the  'Eed 
Kovier  ; '  did  n't  he,  Mr.  Macey  ?  It 's  a  nat'ral  gift. 
There  's  my  little  lad  Aaron,  he  's  got  a  gift,  —  he 
can  sing  a  tune  off  straight,  like  a  throstle.  But  as 
for  you.  Master  Tookey,  you  'd  better  stick  to  your 
'  Amens  ' :  your  voice  is  well  enough  when  you  keep 
it  up  in  your  nose.  It 's  your  inside  as  is  n't  right 
made  for  music :  it 's  no  better  nor  a  hollow  stalk." 

This  kind  of  unflinching  frankness  was  the  most 
piquant  form  of  joke  to  the  company  at  the  Eain- 
bow,  and  Ben  Winthrop's  insult  was  felt  by  every- 
body to  hav^e  capped  Mr.  Macey's  epigram. 

"  I  see  what  it  is,  plain  enough,"  said  Mr.  Tookey, 
unable  to  keep  cool  any  longer.  "There's  a  con- 
speracy  to  turn  me  out  o'  the  choir,  as  I  should  n't 
share  the  Christmas  money,  —  that 's  where  it  is. 
But  I  shall  speak  to  Mr.  Crackenthorp  ;  I  '11  not  be 
put  upon  by  no  man." 

"  Nay,  nay,  Tookey,"  said  Ben  Winthrop.  "  We  '11 
pay  you  your  share  to  keep  out  of  it,  —  that 's  what 
we  '11  do.  There 's  things  folks  'ud  pay  to  be  rid 
on,  besides  varmin." 

"  Come,  come,"  said  the  landlord,  who  felt  that 
paying  people  for  their  absence  was  a  principle 
dangerous  to  society  ;  "  a  joke  's  a  joke.  We  're  all 
good  friends  here,  I  hope.  We  must  give  and  take. 
You  're  both  right  and  you  're  both  wrong,  as  I  say. 
I  agree  wi'  Mr.  Macey  here,  as  there  's  two  opinions  ; 
and  if  mine  was  asked,  I  should  say  they  're  both 
right.     Tookey  's  right  and  Winthrop  's  right,  and 


66  SILAS  MAKNER. 

they  've  only  got  to  split  the  difference  and  make 
themselves  even." 

The  farrier  was  puffing  his  pipe  rather  fiercely,  in 
some  contempt  at  this  trivial  discussion.  He  had 
no  ear  for  music  himself,  and  never  went  to  church, 
as  being  of  the  medical  profession,  and  likely  to  be 
in  requisition  for  delicate  cows.  But  the  butcher, 
having  music  in  his  soul,  had  listened  with  a  divided 
desire  for  Tookey's  defeat  and  for  the  preservation 
of  the  peace. 

"  To  be  sure,"  he  said,  following  up  the  landlord's 
conciliatory  view,  "  we  're  fond  of  our  old  clerk ;  it 's 
nat'ral,  and  him  used  to  be  such  a  singer,  and  got  a 
brother  as  is  known  for  the  first  fiddler  in  this 
country-side.  Eh,  it 's  a  pity  but  what  Solomon 
lived  in  our  village,  and  could  give  us  a  tune  when 
we  liked  ;  eh,  Mr.  Macey  ?  I  'd  keep  him  in  liver 
and  lights  for  nothing,  —  that  I  would." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  in  the  height  of  com- 
placency ;  "  our  family  's  been  known  for  musicianers 
as  far  back  as  anybody  can  tell.  But  them  things 
are  dying  out,  as  I  tell  Solomon  every  time  he 
comes  round ;  there 's  no  voices  like  what  there 
used  to  be,  and  there 's  nobody  remembers  what 
we  remember,  if  it  is  n't  the  old  crows." 

"  Ay,  you  remember  when  first  Mr.  Lammeter's 
father  come  into  these  parts,  don't  you,  Mr.  Macey  ?  " 
said  the  landlord. 

"  I  should  think  I  did,"  said  the  old  man,  who 
had  now  gone  through  that  complimentary  process 
necessary  to  bring  him  up  to  the  point  of  narration  ; 
"  and  a  fine  old  gentleman  he  was,  —  as  fine,  and 
finer  nor  the  Mr.  Lammeter  as  now  is.  He  came 
from  a  bit  north'ard,  so  far  as  I  could  ever  make 
out.     But  there  's  nobody  rightly  knows  about  those 


S]LAS  MARNER.  67 

parts :  only  it  could  n't  be  far  north'ard,  nor  much 
different  from  this  country,  for  he  brought  a  fine 
breed  o'  sheep  with  him,  so  there  must  be  pastures 
there,  and  everything  reasonable.  We  beared  tell 
as  he  'd  sold  his  own  land  to  come  and  take  the 
Warrens,  and  that  seemed  odd  for  a  man  as  had 
land  of  his  own,  to  come  and  rent  a  farm  in  a 
strange  place.  But  they  said  it  was  along  of  his 
wife's  dying ;  though  there  's  reasons  in  things  as 
nobody  knows  on,  —  that 's  pretty  much  what  I  've 
made  out ;  yet  some  folks  are  so  wise,  they  '11  find 
you  fifty  reasons  straight  off,  and  all  the  while  the 
real  reason 's  winking  at  'em  in  the  corner,  and  they 
niver  see  't.  Howsomever,  it  was  soon  seen  as  we  'd 
got  a  new  parish'ner  as  know'd  the  rights  and  cus- 
toms 0'  things,  and  kep  a  good  house,  and  was  well 
looked  on  by  everybody.  And  the  young  man  — 
that 's  the  Mr.  Lammeter  as  now  is,  for  he  'd  niver 
a  sister  —  soon  begun  to  court  Miss  Osgood,  that 's 
the  sister  o'  the  Mr.  Osgood  as  now  is,  and  a  fine 
handsome  lass  she  was,  —  eh,  you  can't  think,  — 
they  pretend  this  young  lass  is  like  her,  but  that 's 
the  way  wi'  people  as  don't  know  what  come  before 
'em.  1  should  know,  for  I  helped  the  old  rector, 
Mr.  Drumlow  as  was,  I  helped  him  marry  'em." 

Here  Mr.  Macey  paused ;  he  always  gave  his 
narrative  in  instalments,  expecting  to  be  questioned 
according  to  precedent. 

"  Ay,  and  a  partic'lar  thing  happened,  did  n't  it, 
Mr.  Macey,  so  as  you  were  likely  to  remember  that 
marriage  ? "  said  the  landlord,  in  a  congratulatory 
tone. 

"  I  should  think  there  did,  —  a  very  partic'lar 
thing,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  nodding  sideways.  "For 
Mr.  Drumlow,  —  poor  old  gentleman,  I  was  fond  on 


68  SILAS  MARNER. 

him,  though  he  'd  got  a  hit  confused  in  his  head 
what  wi'  age  and  wi'  taking  a  drop  o'  summat  warm 
when  the  service  come  of  a  cold  morning.  And 
young  Mr.  Lammeter  he'd  have  no  way  but  he 
must  be  married  in  Janiwary,  which,  to  be  sure,  's  a 
unreasonable  time  to  be  married  in,  for  it  is  n't  like 
a  christenmg  or  a  burying,  as  you  can't  help ;  and 
so  Mr.  Drumlow,  —  poor  old  gentleman,  I  was  fond 
on  him,  —  but  when  he  come  to  put  the  questions, 
he  put  'em  by  the  rule  o'  contrairy,  like,  and  he  says, 
*  Wilt  thou  have  this  man  to  thy  wedded  wife  ? ' 
says  he,  and  then  he  says,  '  Wilt  thou  have  this 
woman  to  thy  wedded  husband  ? '  says  he.  But  the 
partic'larest  thing  of  all  is,  as  nobody  took  any 
notice  on  it  but  me,  and  they  answered  straight  off 
'  yes,'  like  as  if  it  had  been  me  saying  '  Amen  '  i'  the 
right  place,  without  listening  to  what  went  before." 

"  But  you  knew  what  was  going  on  well  enough, 
didn't  you,  Mr.  Macey?  You  were  live  enough, 
eh  ? "  said  the  butcher. 

"  Lor  bless  you ! "  said  Mr.  Macey,  pausing,  and 
smiling  in  pity  at  the  impotence  of  his  hearer's 
imagination,  —  "  why,  I  was  all  of  a  tremble  :  it  was 
as  if  I  'd  been  a  coat  pulled  by  the  two  tails,  like  ; 
for  I  could  n't  stop  the  parson,  I  could  n't  take  upon 
me  to  do  that ;  and  yet  I  said  to  myself,  I  says, 
'  Suppose  they  should  n't  be  fast  married,  'cause  the 
words  are  contrairy  ? '  and  my  head  went  working 
like  a  mill,  for  I  was  allays  uncommon  for  turning 
things  over  and  seeing  all  round  'em ;  and  I  says  to 
myself,  '  Is  't  the  meanin'  or  the  words  as  makes 
folks  fast  i'  wedlock  ? '  For  the  parson  meant  right, 
and  the  bride  and  bridegroom  meant  right.  But 
then,  when  I  come  to  think  on  it,  meanin'  goes  but 
a  little  way  i'  most  things,  for  you  may  mean  to 


SILAS  MAKNER.  69 

stick  things  together  and  your  glue  may  be  bad, 
and  then  where  are  you  ?  And  so  I  says  to  mysen, 
'It  isn't  the  meanin',  it's  the  glue.'  And  I  was 
worreted  as  if  I  'd  got  three  bells  to  pull  at  once, 
when  we  went  into  the  vestry,  and  they  begun  to 
sign  their  names.  But  where  's  the  use  o'  talking  ? 
—  you  can't  think  what  goes  on  in  a  'cute  man's 
inside." 

"  But  you  held  in  for  all  that,  did  n't  you,  Mr. 
Macey  ?  "  said  the  landlord, 

"  Ay,  I  held  in  tight  till  I  was  by  mysen  wi'  Mr. 
Drumlow,  and  then  I  out  wi'  everything,  but  re- 
spectful, as  I  allays  did.  And  he  made  light  on  it, 
and  he  says,  'Pooh,  pooh,  Macey,  make  yourself 
easy,'  he  says  ;  '  it 's  neither  the  meaning  nor  the 
words,  —  it 's  the  re^rcster  does  it,  —  that 's  the  glue.' 
So  you  see  he  settled  it  easy ;  for  parsons  and  doc- 
tors know  everything  by  heart,  like,  so  as  they 
are  n't  worreted  wi'  thinking  what 's  the  rights  and 
wrongs  o'  things,  as  I  'n  been  many  and  many 's  the 
time.  And  sure  enough  the  wedding  turned  out 
all  right,  on'y  poor  Mrs.  Lammeter  —  that 's  Miss 
Osgood  as  was  —  died  afore  the  lasses  was  growed 
up ;  but  for  prosperity  and  everything  respectable, 
there  's  no  family  more  looked  on." 

Every  one  of  Mr.  Macey's  audience  had  heard 
this  story  many  times,  but  it  was  listened  to  as 
if  it  had  been  a  favourite  tune,  and  at  certain 
points  the  puffing  of  the  pipes  was  momentarily 
suspended,  that  the  listeners  might  give  their  whole 
minds  to  the  expected  words.  But  there  was  more 
to  come ;  and  Mr.  Snell,  the  landlord,  duly  put  the 
leading  question. 

"Why,  old  Mr.  Lammeter  had  a  pretty  fortin, 
did  n't  they  say,  when  he  come  into  these  parts  ? " 


70  SILAS  MARNER. 

"  Well,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Macey ;  "  but  1  dare  say 
it 's  as  much  as  this  Mr.  Lammeter  's  done  to  keep 
it  whole.  For  there  was  allays  a  talk  as  nobody 
could  get  rich  on  the  Warrens :  though  he  holds  it 
cheap,  for  it 's  what  they  call  Charity  Land." 

"  Ay,  and  there  's  few  folks  know  so  well  as  you 
how  it  come  to  be  Charity  Land,  eh,  Mr.  Macey  ? " 
said  the  butcher. 

"How  should  they?"  said  the  old  clerk,  with 
some  contempt.  "  Why,  my  grandfather  made  the 
grooms'  livery  for  that  Mr.  Cliff  as  came  and  built 
the  big  stables  at  the  Warrens.  Why,  they're 
stables  four  times  as  big  as  Squire  Cass's,  for  he 
thought  o'  nothing  but  bosses  and  hunting,  Cliff 
did  n't,  —  a  Lunnon  tailor,  some  folks  said,  as  had 
gone  mad  wi'  cheating.  For  he  could  n't  ride  ;  lor 
bless  you  !  they  said  he  'd  got  no  more  grip  o'  the 
boss  than  if  his  legs  had  been  cross-sticks :  my 
grandfather  beared  old  Squire  Cass  say  so  many 
and  many  a  time.  But  ride  he  would  as  if  Old 
Harry  had  been  a-driving  him ;  and  he  'd  a  son,  a 
lad  o'  sixteen ;  and  nothing  would  his  father  have 
him  do,  but  he  must  ride  and  ride,  —  though  the 
lad  was  frighted,  they  said.  And  it  was  a  com- 
mon saying  as  the  father  wanted  to  ride  the  tailor 
out  o'  the  lad,  and  make  a  gentleman  on  him, — 
not  but  what  I  'm  a  tailor  myself,  but  in  respect 
as  G-od  made  me  such,  I  'm  proud  on  it,  for  '  Macey, 
tailor,'  's  been  wrote  up  over  our  door  since  afore 
the  Queen's  heads  went  out  on  the  shillings.  But 
Cliff,  he  was  ashamed  o'  being  called  a  tailor,  and 
he  was  sore  vexed  as  his  riding  was  laughed  at, 
and  nobody  o'  the  gentlefolks  hereabout  could  abide 
him.  Howsomever,  the  poor  lad  got  sickly  and 
died,  and  the  father  did  n't  live  long  after  him,  for 


SILAS  MARNER.  71 

he  got  queerer  nor  ever,  and  they  said  he  used  to 
go  out  i'  the  dead  o'  the  night,  \vi'  a  lantern  in  his 
hand,  to  the  stables,  and  set  a  lot  0'  lights  burning, 
for  he  got  as  he  could  n't  sleep ;  and  there  he  'd 
stand,  cracking  his  whip  and  looking  at  his  bosses  ; 
and  they  said  it  was  a  mercy  as  the  stables  did  n't 
get  burned  down  wi'  the  poor  dumb  creaturs  in 
'em.  But  at  last  he  died  raving,  and  they  found 
as  he  'd  left  all  his  property,  Warrens  and  all,  to  a 
Lunnon  Charity,  and  that 's  how  the  Warrens  come 
to  be  Charity  Land ;  though,  as  for  the  stables,  Mr. 
Lammeter  never  uses  'em,  —  they  're  out  0'  all  char- 
icter,  —  lor  bless  you !  if  you  was  to  set  the  doors 
a-banging  in  'em,  it  'ud  sound  like  thunder  half  o'er 
the  parish." 

"Ay,  but  there's  more  going  on  in  the  stables 
than  what  folks  see  by  daylight,  eh,  Mr.  Macey  ?  " 
said  the  landlord. 

"  Ay,  ay ;  go  that  way  of  a  dark  night,  that 's 
all,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  winking  mysteriously,  "  and 
then  make  believe,  if  you  like,  as  you  did  n't  see 
lights  i'  the  stables,  nor  hear  the  stamping  o'  the 
bosses,  nor  the  cracking  0'  the  whips,  and  howling, 
too,  if  it's  tow'rt  daybreak.  'Cliff's  Holiday'  has 
been  the  name  of  it  ever  sin'  I  were  a  boy ;  that 's 
to  say,  some  said  as  it  was  the  holiday  Old  Harry 
gev  him  from  roasting,  like.  That's  what  my 
father  told  me,  and  he  was  a  reasonable  man, 
though  there's  folks  nowadays  know  what  hap- 
pened afore  they  were  born  better  nor  they  know 
their  own  business." 

"  What  do  you  say  to  that,  eh.  Dowlas  ? "  said 
the  landlord,  turning  to  the  farrier,  who  was  swell- 
ing with  impatience  for  his  cue.  "  There 's  a  nut 
for  you  to  crack." 


72  SILAS  MARNER. 

Mr.  Dowlas  was  the  negative  spirit  in  the  com- 
pany, and  was  proud  of  his  position. 

"  Say  ?  I  say  what  a  man  should  say  as  does  n't 
shut  his  eyes  to  look  at  a  finger-post.  I  say,  as  I  'm 
ready  to  wager  any  man  ten  pound,  if  he  '11  stand 
out  wi'  me  any  dry  night  in  the  pasture  before  the 
Warren  stables,  as  we  shall  neither  see  lights  nor 
hear  noises,  if  it  is  n't  the  blowing  of  our  own 
noses.  That 's  what  I  say,  and  I  've  said  it  many  a 
time ;  but  there 's  nobody  'ull  ventur  a  ten-pun' 
note  on  their  ghos'es  as  they  make  so  sure  of." 

"  Why,  Dowlas,  that 's  easy  betting,  that  is,"  said 
Ben  Winthrop.  "  You  might  as  well  bet  a  man  as 
he  wouldn't  catch  the  rheumatise  if  he  stood  up 
to's  neck  in  the  pool  of  a  frosty  night.  It  'ud  be 
fine  fun  for  a  man  to  win  his  bet  as  he  'd  catch  the 
rheumatise.  Folks  as  believe  in  Cliff's  Holiday  are  n't 
a-going  to  ventur  near  it  for  a  matter  o'  ten  pound." 

"  If  Master  Dowlas  wants  to  know  the  truth  on 
it,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  with  a  sarcastic  smile,  tapping 
his  thumbs  together,  "  he  's  no  call  to  lay  any  bet,  — 
let  him  go  and  stan'  by  himself,  —  there's  nobody 
'ull  hinder  him ;  and  then  he  can  let  the  parish'ners 
know  if  they  're  wrong." 

"  Thank  you  !  I  'm  obliged  to  you,"  said  the  far- 
rier, with  a  snort  of  scorn.  "  If  folks  are  fools,  it 's 
no  business  o'  mine.  /  don't  want  to  make  out  the 
truth  about  ghos'es  :  I  know  it  a'ready.  But  I  'm 
not  against  a  bet,  —  everything  fair  and  open.  Let 
any  man  bet  me  ten  pound  as  I  shall  see  Cliff's 
Holiday,  and  I  '11  go  and  stand  by  myself.  I  want 
no  company.     I  'd  as  lief  do  it  as  I  'd  fill  this  pipe." 

"  Ah,  but  who  's  to  watch  you,  Dowlas,  and  see 
you  do  it  ?     That 's  no  fair  bet,"  said  the  butcher. 

"  No  fair  bet?  "  replied  Mr.  Dowlas,  angrily.     "  I 


SILAS  MARNER.  73 

should  like  to  hear  any  man  stand  up  and  say  I 
want  to  bet  unfair.  Come  now,  Master  Lundy, 
I  should  like  to  hear  you  say  it." 

"  Very  like  you  would,"  said  the  butcher.  "  But 
it  's  no  business  o'  mine.  You  're  none  o'  my  bar- 
gains, and  I  are  n't  a-going  to  try  and  'bate  your 
price.  If  anybody  '11  bid  for  you  at  your  own  val- 
lying,  let  him.  I  'm  for  peace  and  quietness,  I 
am." 

"  Yes,  that 's  what  every  yapping  cur  is,  when 
you  hold  a  stick  up  at  him,"  said  the  farrier.  "  But 
I  'm  afraid  o'  neither  man  nor  ghost,  and  I  'm  ready 
to  lay  a  fair  bet.     I  are  n't  a  turn-tail  cur." 

"  Ay,  but  there 's  this  in  it,  Dowlas,"  said  the 
landlord,  speaking  in  a  tone  of  much  candor  and 
tolerance.  "  There 's  folks,  i'  my  opinion,  they  can 't 
see  ghos'es,  not  if  they  stood  as  plain  as  a  pike-staff 
before  'em.  And  there's  reason  i'  that.  For  there  's 
my  wife,  now,  can't  smell,  not  if  she  'd  the  strongest 
o'  cheese  under  her  nose.  I  never  see'd  a  ghost 
myself ;  but  then  I  says  to  myself,  '  Very  like  I 
have  n't  got  the  smell  for  'em.'  I  mean,  putting  a 
ghost  for  a  smell,  or  else  contrairiways.  And  so, 
I  'm  for  holding  with  both  sides ;  for,  as  I  say,  the 
truth  lies  between  'em.  And  if  Dowlas  was  to  go 
and  stand,  and  say  he  'd  never  seen  a  wink  o'  Cliffs 
Holiday  all  the  night  through,  I  'd  back  him  ;  and 
if  anybody  said  as  Cliff's  Holiday  was  certain  sure 
for  all  that,  I'd  back  him  too.  For  the  smell's 
what  I  go  by." 

The  landlord's  analogical  argument  was  not  well 
received  by  the  farrier,  —  a  man  intensely  opposed 
to  compromise, 

"  Tut,  tut,"  he  said,  setting  down  his  glass  with 
refreshed  irritation ;   "  what 's  the  smell  got  to  do 


74  SILAS  MARKER. 

with  it  ?  Did  ever  a  ghost  give  a  man  a  black  eye  ? 
That's  what  I  should  like  to  know.  If  ghos'es 
want  me  to  believe  in  'em,  let  'em  leave  off  skulking 
i'  the  dark  and  i'  lone  places,  —  let  'em  come  where 
there  's  company  and  candles." 

"  As  if  ghos'es  'ud  want  to  be  believed  in  by  any- 
body so  ignirant !  "  said  Mr.  Macey,  in  deep  disgust 
at  the  farrier's  crass  incompetence  to  apprehend  the 
conditions  of  ghostly  phenomena. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Yet  the  next  moment  there  seemed  to  be  some 
evidence  that  ghosts  had  a  more  condescending  dis- 
position than  Mr.  Macey  attributed  to  them  ;  for  the 
pale  thin  figure  of  Silas  Marner  was  suddenly  seen 
standing  in  the  warm  light,  uttering  no  word,  but 
looking  round  at  the  company  with  his  strange  un- 
earthly eyes.  The  long  pipes  gave  a  simultaneous 
movement,  like  the  antennte  of  startled  insects,  and 
every  man  present,  not  excepting  even  the  sceptical 
farrier,  had  an  impression  that  he  saw,  not  Silas 
Marner  in  the  flesh,  but  an  apparition  ;  for  the  door 
by  which  Silas  had  entered  was  hidden  by  the  high- 
screened  seats,  and  no  one  had  noticed  his  approach. 
Mr.  Macey,  sitting  a  long  way  off  the  ghost,  might 
be  supposed  to  have  felt  an  argumentative  triumph, 
which  would  tend  to  neutralize  his  share  of  the 
general  alarm.  Had  he  not  always  said  that  when 
Silas  Marner  was  in  that  strange  trance  of  his,  his 
soul  went  loose  from  his  body  ?  Here  was  the 
demonstration :  nevertheless,  on  the  whole,  he 
would  have  been  as  well  contented  without  it. 
For  a  few  moments  there  was  a  dead  silence, 
Marner's  want  of  breath  and  agitation  not  allowing 
him  to  speak.  The  landlord,  under  the  habitual 
sense  that  he  was  bound  to  keep  his  house  open  to 
all  company,  and  confident  in  the  protection  of  his 
unbroken  neutrality,  at  last  took  on  himself  the 
task  of  adjuring  the  ghost. 


76  SILAS  MARNER. 

"  Master  Marner,"  he  said,  in  a  conciliatory  tone, 
"  what 's  lacking  to  you  ?  What 's  your  business 
here  ? " 

"  Robbed  !  "  said  Silas,  gaspingly.  "  I  've  been 
robbed  !  I  want  the  constable,  —  and  the  Justice, 
—  and  Squire  Cass,  —  and  Mr.  Crackenthorp." 

"  Lay  hold  on  him,  Jem  Rodney,"  said  the  land- 
lord, the  idea  of  a  ghost  subsiding :  "  he  's  off  his 
head,  I  doubt.     He  's  wet  through." 

Jem  Rodney  was  the  outermost  man,  and  sat 
conveniently  near  Marner's  standing-place ;  but  he 
declined  to  give  his  services. 

"  Come  and  lay  hold  on  him  yourself,  Mr.  Snell, 
if  you  've  a  mind,"  said  Jem,  rather  sullenly.  "  He 's 
been  robbed,  and  murdered  too,  for  what  I  know," 
he  added,  in  a  muttering  tone. 

"  Jem  Rodney ! "  said  Silas,  turning  and  fixing 
his  strange  eyes  on  the  suspected  man. 

"  Ay,  Master  Marner,  what  do  ye  want  wi'  me  ?  " 
said  Jem,  trembling  a  little,  and  seizing  his  drink- 
ing-can  as  a  defensive  weapon. 

"  If  it  was  you  stole  my  money,"  said  Silas,  clasp- 
ing his  hands  entreatingly,  and  raising  his  voice  to 
a  cry,  "  give  it  me  back,  —  and  I  won't  meddle 
with  you.  I  won't  set  the  constable  on  you.  Give 
it  me  back,  and  I'll  let  you —  I'll  let  you  have 
a  guinea." 

"  Me  stole  your  money ! "  said  Jem,  angrily. 
"  I  '11  pitch  this  can  at  your  eye  if  you  talk  o'  my 
stealing  your  money." 

"  Come,  come,  Master  Marner,"  said  the  landlord, 
now  rising  resolutely,  and  seizing  Marner  by  the 
shoulder,  "  if  you  've  got  any  information  to  lay, 
speak  it  out  sensible,  and  show  as  you  're  in  your 
right  mind,  if  you  expect  anybody  to  listen  to  you. 


SILAS  MARNER.  TJ 

You  're  as  wet  as  a  drownded  rat.  Sit  down  and  dry 
yourself,  and  speak  straight  forrard." 

"Ah,  to  be  sure,  man,"  said  the  farrier,  who  be- 
gan to  feel  that  he  had  not  been  quite  on  a  par  with 
himself  and  the  occasion.  "  Let 's  have  no  more 
staring  and  screaming,  else  we  '11  have  you  strapped 
for  a  madman.  That  was  why  I  didn't  speak  at 
the  first,  —  thinks  I,  the  man  's  run  mad." 

"  Ay,  ay,  make  him  sit  down,"  said  several  voices 
at  once,  well  pleased  that  the  reality  of  ghosts  re- 
mained still  an  open  question. 

The  landlord  forced  Marner  to  take  off  his  coat, 
and  then  to  sit  down  on  a  chair  aloof  from  every 
one  else,  in  the  centre  of  the  circle  and  in  the  direct 
rays  of  the  fire.  The  weaver,  too  feeble  to  have 
any  distinct  purpose  beyond  that  of  getting  help  to 
recover  his  money,  submitted  unresistingly.  The 
transient  fears  of  the  company  were  now  forgotten 
in  their  strong  cviriosity,  and  all  faces  were  turned 
towards  Silas,  when  the  landlord,  having  seated 
himself  again,  said,  — 

"  Now  then.  Master  Marner,  what 's  this  you  've 
got  to  say,  —  as  you  've  been  robbed  ?     Speak  out." 

"  He  'd  better  not  say  again  as  it  was  me  robbed 
him,"  cried  Jem  Rodney,  hastily.  "  AVliat  could  I 
ha'  done  with  his  money  ?  I  could  as  easy  steal 
the  parson's  surplice,  and  wear  it." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Jem,  and  let 's  hear  what 
he's  got  to  say,"  said  the  landlord.  "Kow  then. 
Master  Marner." 

Silas  now  told  his  story,  under  frequent  question- 
ing as  the  mysterious  character  of  the  robbery 
became  evident. 

This  strangely  novel  situation  of  opening  his 
trouble  to  his  Raveloe  neighbours,  of  sitting  in  the 


78  SILAS  MARNER. 

warmth  of  a  hearth  not  his  own,  and  feeling  the 
presence  of  faces  and  voices  which  were  liis  nearest 
promise  of  help,  had  doubtless  its  influence  on 
Marner,  in  spite  of  his  passionate  preoccupation 
with  his  loss.  Our  consciousness  rarely  registers 
the  beginning  of  a  growth  within  us  any  more  than 
without  us  :  there  have  been  many  circulations  of 
the  sap  before  we  detect  the  smallest  sign  of  the 
bud. 

The  slight  suspicion  with  which  his  hearers  at 
first  listened  to  him,  gradually  melted  away  before 
the  convincing  simplicity  of  his  distress :  it  was 
impossible  for  the  neighbours  to  doubt  that  Marner 
was  telling  the  truth,  not  because  they  were  capable 
of  arguing  at  once  from  the  nature  of  his  state- 
ments to  the  absence  of  any  motive  for  making 
them  falsely,  but  because,  as  Mr.  Macey  observed, 
"Folks  as  had  the  devil  to  back  'em  were  not  likely 
to  be  so  mushed"  as  poor  Silas  was.  Eather,  from 
the  strange  fact  that  the  robber  had  left  no  traces, 
and  had  happened  to  know  the  nick  of  time,  utterly 
incalculable  by  mortal  agents,  when  Silas  would 
go  away  from  home  without  locking  his  door,  the 
more  probable  conclusion  seemed  to  be  that  his 
disreputable  intimacy  in  that  quarter,  if  it  ever 
existed,  had  been  broken  up,  and  that,  in  conse- 
quence, this  ill  turn  had  been  done  to  Marner  by 
somebody  it  was  quite  in  vain  to  set  the  constable 
after.  "Why  this  preternatural  felon  should  be 
obliged  to  wait  till  the  door  was  left  unlocked,  was 
a  question  which  did  not  present  itself. 

"It  isn't  Jem  Eodney  as  has  done  this  work. 
Master  Marner,"  said  the  landlord.  "  You  must  n't 
be  a-casting  your  eye  at  poor  Jem.  There  may  be 
a  bit  of  a  reckoning  against  Jem  for  the  matter  of 


SILAS  MARNER.  79 

a  hare  or  so,  if  anybody  was  bound  to  keep  their 
eyes  staring  open,  and  niver  to  wink ;  but  Jem 's 
been  a-sitting  here  drinking  his  can,  like  the  de- 
centest  man  i'  the  parish,  since  before  you  left  your 
house,  Master  Marner,  by  your  own  account." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Macey ;  "  let 's  have  no  accus- 
ing o'  the  innicent.  That  is  n't  the  law.  There 
must  be  folks  to  swear  again'  a  man  before  he  can 
be  ta'en  up.  Let 's  have  no  accusing  o'  the  inni- 
cent, Master  Marner." 

Memory  was  not  so  utterly  torpid  in  Silas  that  it 
could  not  be  wakened  by  these  words.  With  a 
movement  of  compunction  as  new  and  strange  to 
him  as  everything  else  within  the  last  hour,  he 
started  from  his  chair  and  went  close  up  to  Jem, 
looking  at  him  as  if  he  wanted  to  assure  himself 
of  the  expression  in  his  face. 

"  I  was  wrong,"  he  said,  — "  yes,  yes,  —  I  ought 
to  have  thought.  There 's  nothing  to  witness 
against  you,  Jem.  Only  you  'd  been  into  my  house 
oftener  than  anybody  else,  and  so  you  came  into 
my  head.  I  don't  accuse  you,  —  I  won't  accuse 
anybody,  —  only,"  he  added,  lifting  up  his  hands  to 
his  head,  and  turning  away  with  bewildered  misery, 
"  I  try  —  I  try  to  think  where  my  guineas  can  be." 

"  Ay,  ay,  they  're  gone  where  it 's  hot  enough  to 
melt  'em,  I  doubt,"  said  Mr.  Macey. 

"  Tchuh  ! "  said  the  farrier.  And  then  he  asked, 
with  a  cross-examining  air,  "  How  much  money  might 
there  be  in  the  bags,  Master  Marner  ? " 

"Two  hundred  and  seventy-two  pounds,  twelve 
and  sixpence,  last  night  when  I  counted  it,"  said 
Silas,  seating  himself  again,  with  a  groan. 

"  Pooh  !  why,  they  'd  be  none  so  heavy  to  carry. 
Some  tramp's  been  in,  that's  all;  and  as  for  the 


8o  SILAS  MARNER. 

no  footmarks,  and  the  bricks  and  the  sand  being 
all  right,  —  why,  your  eyes  are  pretty  much  like 
a  insect's,  Master  Marner ;  they  're  obliged  to  look 
so  close,  you  can't  see  much  at  a  time.  It 's  my 
opinion  as,  if  I  'd  been  you,  or  you  'd  been  me,  — 
for  it  comes  to  the  same  thing,  —  you  would  n't 
have  thought  you  'd  found  everything  as  you  left 
it.  But  what  I  vote  is,  as  two  of  the  sensiblest  o' 
the  company  should  go  with  you  to  Master  Kench, 
the  constable's,  — he  's  ill  i'  bed,  I  know  that  much, 
—  and  get  him  to  appoint  one  of  us  his  deppity  ; 
for  that 's  the  law,  and  I  don't  think  anybody  'ull 
take  upon  him  to  contradick  me  there.  It  is  n't 
much  of  a  walk  to  Kench's ;  and  then,  if  it 's  me 
as  is  deppity,  I  '11  go  back  with  you.  Master  Marner, 
and  examine  your  premises ;  and  if  anybody  's  got 
any  fault  to  find  with  that,  I  '11  thank  him  to  stand 
up  and  say  it  out  like  a  man." 

By  this  pregnant  speech  the  farrier  had  re- 
established his  self-complacency,  and  waited  with 
confidence  to  hear  himself  named  as  one  of  the 
superlatively  sensible  men. 

"  Let  us  see  how  the  night  is,  though,"  said  the 
landlord,  who  also  considered  himself  personally 
concerned  in  this  proposition.  "Why,  it  rains 
heavy  still,"  he  said,  returning  from  the  door. 

"  Well,  I  'm  not  the  man  to  be  afraid  o'  the  rain," 
said  the  farrier.  "  For  it  '11  look  bad  when  Justice 
Malam  hears  as  respectable  men  like  us  had  a  in- 
formation laid  before  'em  and  took  no  steps." 

The  landlord  agreed  with  this  view,  and  after 
taking  the  sense  of  the  company,  and  duly  rehears- 
ing a  small  ceremony  known  in  high  ecclesiastical 
life  as  the  nolo  episcopari,  he  consented  to  take  on 
himself  the  chill  dignity  of  going  to  Kench's.     But 


SILAS  MARNER.  8i 

to  the  farrier's  strong  disgust,  Mr.  Macey  now 
started  an  objection  to  his  proposing  himself  as  a 
deputy-constable ;  for  that  oracular  old  gentleman, 
claiming  to  know  the  law,  stated,  as  a  fact  delivered 
to  him  by  his  father,  that  no  doctor  could  be  a 
constable. 

"  And  you  're  a  doctor,  I  reckon,  though  you  're 
only  a  cow  doctor,  —  for  a  fly  's  a  fly,  though  it 
may  be  a  hoss-fly,"  concluded  Mr.  Macey,  wonder- 
ing a  little  at  his  own  "  'cuteness." 

There  was  a  hot  debate  upon  this,  the  farrier 
being  of  course  indisposed  to  renounce  the  quality 
of  doctor,  but  contending  that  a  doctor  could  be  a 
constable  if  he  liked,  —  the  law  meant,  he  need  n't 
be  one  if  he  did  n't  like.  Mr.  Macey  thought  this 
was  nonsense,  since  the  law  was  not  likely  to  be 
fonder  of  doctors  than  of  other  folks.  Moreover,  if 
it  was  in  the  nature  of  doctors  more  than  of  other 
men  not  to  like  being  constables,  how  came  Mr. 
Dowlas  to  be  so  eager  to  act  in  that  capacity  ? 

"  /  don't  want  to  act  the  constable,"  said  the  far- 
rier, driven  into  a  corner  by  this  merciless  reason- 
ing ;  "  and  there  's  no  man  can  say  it  of  me,  if  he  'd 
tell  the  truth.  But  if  there  's  to  be  any  jealousy 
and  enzjying  about  going  to  Kench's  in  the  rain,  let 
them  go  as  like  it,  —  you  won't  get  me  to  go,  I  can 
tell  you." 

By  the  landlord's  intervention,  however,  the  dis- 
pute was  accommodated.  Mr.  Dowlas  consented  to 
go  as  a  second  person  disinclined  to  act  ofticially ; 
and  so  poor  Silas,  furnished  with  some  old  cover- 
ings, turned  out  with  his  two  companions  into  the 
rain  again,  thinking  of  the  long  night-hours  before 
him,  not  as  those  do  who  long  to  rest,  but  as  those 
who  expect  to  "  watch  for  the  morning." 


/o^H2- 


CHAPTEE  VIII. 

When  Godfrey  Cass  returned  from  Mrs.  Osgood's 
party  at  midnight,  he  was  not  much  surjDrised  to 
learn  that  Dunsey  had  not  come  home.  Perhaps 
he  had  not  sold  Wildfire,  and  was  waiting  for 
another  chance,  —  perhaps,  on  that  foggy  afternoon, 
he  had  preferred  housing  himself  at  the  Picd  Lion 
at  Batherley  for  the  night,  if  the  run  had  kept  him 
in  that  neighbourhood;  for  he  was  not  likely  to 
feel  much  concern  about  leaving  his  brother  in 
suspense.  Godfrey's  mind  was  too  full  of  Nancy 
Lammeter's  looks  and  behaviour,  too  full  of  the 
exasperation  against  himself  and  his  lot,  which 
the  sight  of  her  always  produced  in  him,  for  him  to 
give  much  thought  to  Wildfire,  or  to  the  probabili- 
ties of  Dunstan's  conduct. 

The  next  morning  the  whole  village  was  excited 
by  the  story  of  the  robbery ;  and  Godfrey,  like  every 
one  else,  was  occupied  in  gathering  and  discussing 
news  about  it,  and  in  visiting  the  Stone-pits.  The 
rain  had  washed  away  all  possibility  of  distinguish- 
ing foot-marks  ;  but  a  close  investigation  of  the  spot 
had  disclosed,  in  the  direction  opposite  to  the  vil- 
lage, a  tinder-box,  with  a  flint  and  steel,  half  sunk 
in  the  mud.  It  was  not  Silas's  tinder-box,  for  the 
only  one  he  had  ever  had  was  still  standing  on  his 
shelf ;  and  the  inference  generally  accepted  was 
that  the  tinder-box  in  the  ditch  was  somehow  con- 
nected with  the  robbery.  A  small  minority  shook 
their  heads,  and  intimated  their  opinion  that  it  was 


SILAS  MARNER.  83 

not  a  robbery  to  have  much  light  thrown  on  it  by- 
tinder-boxes,  that  Master  Marner's  tale  had  a  queer 
look  with  it,  and  that  such  things  had  been  known 
as  a  man's  doing  himself  a  mischief,  and  then  set- 
ting the  justice  to  look  for  the  doer.  But  when 
questioned  closely  as  to  their  grounds  for  this  opin- 
ion, and  what  Master  Marner  had  to  gain  by  such 
false  pretences,  they  only  shook  their  heads  as 
before,  and  observed  that  there  was  no  knowing 
what  some  folks  counted  gain ;  moreover,  that 
everybody  had  a  right  to  their  own  opinions, 
grounds  or  no  grounds,  and  that  the  weaver,  as 
everybody  knew,  was  partly  crazy.  Mr.  Macey, 
though  he  joined  in  the  defence  of  Marner  against 
all  suspicions  of  deceit,  also  pooh-poohed  the  tinder- 
box  ;  indeed,  repudiated  it  as  a  rather  impious  sug- 
gestion, tending  to  imply  that  everything  must  be 
done  by  human  hands,  and  that  there  was  no 
power  which  could  make  away  with  the  guineas 
without  moving  the  bricks.  Nevertheless,  he 
turned  round  rather  sharply  on  Mr.  Tookey,  when 
the  zealous  deputy,  feeling  that  this  was  a  view 
of  the  case  peculiarly  suited  to  a  parish-clerk,  car- 
ried it  still  further,  and  doubted  whether  it  was 
right  to  inquire  into  a  robbery  at  all  when  the  cir- 
cumstances were  so  mysterious. 

"  As  if,"  concluded  Mr.  Tookey,  —  "  as  if  there 
was  nothing  but  what  could  be  made  out  by 
justices  and  constables." 

"  Now,  don't  you  be  for  overshooting  the  mark, 
Tookey,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  nodding  his  head  aside 
admonishingly.  "  That 's  what  you  're  allays  at ; 
if  I  throw  a  stone  and  hit,  you  think  there 's 
summat  better  than  hitting,  and  you  try  to  throw 
a   stone   beyond.      What   I   said   was   against   the 


84  SILAS  MARNER. 

tinder-box :  I  said  nothing  against  justices  and 
constables,  for  they  're  o'  King  George's  making, 
and  it  'ud  be  ill-becoming  a  man  in  a  parish  office 
to  fly  out  again'  King  George." 

While  these  discussions  were  going  on  among 
the  group  outside  the  Eainbow,  a  higher  consulta- 
tion was  being  carried  on  within,  under  the  presi- 
dency of  Mr.  Crackenthorp,  the  Eector,  assisted 
by  Squire  Cass  and  other  substantial  parishioners. 
It  had  just  occurred  to  Mr,  Snell,  the  landlord, — 
he  being,  as  he  observed,  a  man  accustomed  to 
put  two  and  two  together,  —  to  connect  with  the 
tinder-box,  which,  as  deputy  constable,  he  himself 
had  had  the  honourable  distinction  of  finding, 
certain  recollections  of  a  pedler  who  had  called 
to  drink  at  the  house  about  a  month  before,  and 
had  actually  stated  that  he  carried  a  tinder-box 
about  with  him  to  light  his  pipe.  Here,  surely, 
was  a  clew  to  be  followed  out.  And  as  memory, 
when  duly  impregnated  with  ascertained  facts,  is 
sometimes  surprisingly  fertile,  Mr.  Snell  gradually 
recovered  a  vivid  impression  of  the  effect  produced 
on  him  by  the  pedler's  countenance  and  conversa- 
tion. He  had  a  "  look  with  his  eye "  which  fell 
unpleasantly  on  Mr.  Snell's  sensitive  organism. 
To  be  sure,  he  did  n't  say  anything  particular,  — 
no,  except  that  about  the  tinder-box,  —  but  it  is  n't 
what  a  man  says,  it 's  the  way  he  says  it.  More- 
over, he  had  a  swarthy  foreignness  of  complexion 
which  boded  little  honesty. 

"  Did  he  wear  ear-rings  ? "  Mr.  Crackenthorp 
wished  to  know,  having  some  acquaintance  with 
foreign  customs. 

"  Well,  —  stay,  —  let  me  see,"  said  Mr.  Snell, 
like   a   docile   clairvoyant,   who  would   really   not 


SILAS  MARNER.  85 

make  a  mistake  if  she  could  help  it.  After  stretch- 
ing the  corners  of  his  mouth  and  contracting  his 
eyes,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  see  the  ear-rings,  he 
appeared  to  give  up  the  effort,  and  said,  "  Well, 
he  'd  got  ear-rings  in  his  box  to  sell,  so  it 's  nat'ral 
to  suppose  he  might  wear  'em.  But  he  called  at 
every  house,  a'most,  in  the  village ;  there  's  some- 
body else,  mayhap,  saw  'em  in  his  ears,  though  I 
can't  take  upon  me  rightly  to  say." 

Mr.  Snell  was  correct  in  his  surmise,  that  some- 
body else  would  remember  the  pedler's  ear-rings. 
For  on  the  spread  of  inquiry  among  the  villagers 
it  was  stated  with  gathering  emphasis,  that  the 
parson  had  wanted  to  know  whether  the  pedler 
wore  ear-rings  in  his  ears,  and  an  impression  was 
created  that  a  great  deal  depended  on  the  eliciting 
of  this  fact.  Of  course,  every  one  who  heard  the 
question,  not  having  any  distinct  image  of  the 
pedler  as  icithout  ear-rings,  immediately  had  an 
image  of  him  with  ear-rings,  larger  or  smaller,  as 
the  case  might  be  ;  and  the  image  was  presently 
taken  for  a  vivid  recollection,  so  that  the  glazier's 
wife,  a  well-intentioned  woman,  not  given  to  lying, 
and  whose  house  was  among  the  cleanest  in  the 
village,  was  ready  to  declare,  as  sure  as  ever  she 
meant  to  take  the  sacrament  the  very  next  Christ- 
mas that  was  ever  coming,  that  she  had  seen  big 
ear-rings,  in  the  shape  of  the  young  moon,  in  the 
pedler's  two  ears ;  while  Jinny  Oates,  the  cobbler's 
daughter,  being  a  more  imaginative  person,  stated 
not  only  that  she  had  seen  them  too,  but  that  they 
had  made  her  blood  creep,  as  it  did  at  that  very 
moment  while  there  she  stood. 

Also,  by  way  of  throwing  further  light  on  this 
clew   of  the  tinder-box,  a  collection  was  made  of 


86  SILAS  MAUNER. 

all  the  articles  p'archased  from  the  pedler  at  various 
houses,  and  carried  to  the  Eambow  to  be  exhibited 
there.  In  fact,  there  was  a  general  feeling  in  the 
village,  that  for  the  cleariug-up  of  this  robbery 
there  must  be  a  great  deal  done  at  the  Eainbow. 
and  that  no  man  need  offer  his  wife  an  excuse  for 
going  there  while  it  was  the  scene  of  severe  public 
duties. 

Some  disappointment  was  felt,  and  perhaps  a 
little  indignation  also,  when  it  became  known 
that  Silas  Marner,  on  being  questioned  by  the 
Squire  and  the  parson,  had  retained  no  other 
recollection  of  the  pedler  than  that  he  had  called 
at  his  door,  but  had  not  entered  his  house,  having 
turned  away  at  once  when  Silas,  holding  the  door 
ajar,  had  said  that  he  wanted  nothing.  This  had 
been  Silas's  testimony,  though  he  clutched  strongly 
at  the  idea  of  the  pedler's  being  the  culprit,  if  only 
because  it  gave  him  a  definite  image  of  a  where- 
about for  his  gold  after  it  had  been  taken  away 
from  its  hiding-place  :  he  could  see  it  now  in  the 
pedler's  box.  But  it  was  observed,  with  some  irri- 
tation in  the  village,  that  anybody  but  a  "blind 
creatur"  like  Marner  would  have  seen  the  man 
prowling  about,  for  how  came  he  to  leave  his 
tinder-box  in  the  ditch  close  by,  if  he  hadn't 
been  lingering  there  ?  Doubtless,  he  had  made 
his  observations  when  he  saw  Marner  at  the  door. 
Anybody  might  know  —  and  only  look  at  him  — 
that  the  weaver  was  a  half-crazy  miser.  It  was 
a  wonder  the  pedler  had  n't  murdered  him ;  men 
of  that  sort,  with  rings  in  their  ears,  had  been 
known  for  murderers  often  and  often ;  there  had 
been  one  tried  at  the  'sizes,  not  so  long  ago  but 
what  there  were  people  living  who  remembered  it. 


SILAS  MARNER.  87 

Godfrey  Cass,  indeed,  entering  the  Eaiubow  dur- 
ing one  of  Mr.  Snell's  frequently  repeated  recitals 
of  his  testimony,  had  treated  it  lightly,  stating 
that  he  himself  had  bought  a  pen-knife  of  the 
pedler,  and  thought  him  a  merry  grinnmg  fellow 
enough ;  it  was  all  nonsense,  he  said,  about  the 
man's  evil  looks.  But  this  was  spoken  of  in  the 
village  as  the  random  talk  of  youth,  "  as  if  it  was 
only  Mr.  Snell  who  had  seen  something  odd  about 
the  pedler  ! "  On  the  contrary,  there  were  at  least 
half-a-dozen  who  were  ready  to  go  before  Justice 
Malam,  and  give  in  much  more  striking  testimony 
than  any  the  landlord  could  furnish.  It  was  to 
be  hoped  Mr.  Godfrey  would  not  go  to  Tarley  and 
throw  cold  water  on  what  Mr.  Snell  said  there, 
and  so  prevent  the  justice  from  drawing  up  a 
warrant.  He  was  suspected  of  intending  this, 
when,  after  mid-day,  he  was  seen  setting  off  on 
horseback  in  the  direction  of  Tarley. 

But  by  this  time  Godfrey's  interest  in  the 
robbery  had  faded  before  his  growing  anxiety 
about  Dunstan  and  Wildfire,  and  he  was  going, 
not  to  Tarley,  but  to  Bather  ley,  unable  to  rest  in 
uncertainty  about  them  any  longer.  The  possi- 
bility that  Dunstan  had  played  him  the  ugly 
trick  of  riding  away  with  Wildfire,  to  return  at 
the  end  of  a  month,  when  he  had  gambled  away 
or  otherwise  squandered  the  price  of  the  horse, 
was  a  fear  that  urged  itself  upon  him  more,  even, 
than  the  thought  of  an  accidental  injury ;  and  now 
that  the  dance  at  Mrs.  Osgood's  was  past,  he  was 
irritated  with  himself  that  he  had  trusted  his 
horse  to  Dunstan.  Instead  of  trying  to  still  his 
fears,  he  encouraged  them,  with  that  superstitious 
impression  which  clings  to  us  all,  that  if  we  expect 


88  SILAS  MARNER. 

evil  very  strongly  it  is  the  less  likely  to  come  ;  and 
when  he  heard  a  horse  approaching  at  a  trot,  and 
saw  a  hat  rising  above  a  hedge  beyond  an  angle 
of  the  lane,  he  felt  as  if  his  conjuration  had  suc- 
ceeded. But  no  sooner  did  the  horse  come  within 
sight  than  his  heart  sank  again.  It  was  not 
Wildfire;  and  in  a  few  moments  more  he  discerned 
that  the  rider  was  not  Dunstan,  but  Bryce,  who 
pulled  up  to  speak,  with  a  face  that  implied  some- 
thing disagreeable. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Godfrey,  that 's  a  lucky  brother  of 
yours,  that  Master  Dunsey,  isn't  he?" 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  said  Godfrey,  hastily. 

"  Why,  has  n't  he  been  home  yet  ? "  said  Bryce. 

"  Home  ?  No.  What  has  happened  ?  Be  quick. 
What  has  he  done  with  my  horse  ? " 

"  Ah,  I  thought  it  was  yours,  though  he  pretended 
you  had  parted  with  it  to  him." 

"  Has  he  thrown  him  down  and  broken  his 
knees  ? "  said  Godfrey,  flushed  with  exasperation. 

"  Worse  than  that,"  said  Bryce.  "  You  see,  I  'd 
made  a  bargain  with  him  to  buy  the  horse  for  a 
hundred  and  tvv^enty,  —  a  swinging  price,  but  I  al- 
ways liked  the  horse.  And  what  does  he  do  but 
go  and  stake  him,  —  fly  at  a  hedge  with  stakes  in 
it,  atop  of  a  bank  with  a  ditch  befbre  it.  The  horse 
had  been  dead  a  pretty  good  while  when  he  was  found. 
So  he  has  n't  been  home  since,  has  he  ?  " 

"  Home  ?  No,"  said  Godfrey,  "  and  he  'd  belter 
keep  away.  Confound  me  for  a  fool !  I  might 
have  known  this  would  be  the  end  of  it." 

"  Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  Bryce,  "  after 
I'd  bargained  for  the  horse,  it  did  come  into  my 
head  that  he  might  be  riding  and  selling  the  horse 
without  your  knowledge,  for  I  did  n't  believe  it  was 


SILAS  MARNER.  89 

his  own.  I  knew  Master  Dunsey  was  up  to  his 
tricks  sometimes.  But  where  can  he  be  gone  ? 
He 's  never  been  seen  at  Batherley.  He  could  n't 
have  been  hurt,  for  he  must  have  walked  off." 

"  Hurt  ?  "  said  Godfrey,  bitterly.  "  He  11  never 
be  hurt,  —  he  's  made  to  hurt  other  people." 

"  And  so  you  did  give  him  leave  to  sell  the  horse, 
eh  ?  "  said  Bryce. 

"  Yes  ;  I  wanted  to  part  with  the  horse,  —  he  was 
always  a  little  too  hard  in  the  mouth  for  me,"  said 
Godfrey ;  his  pride  making  him  wince  under  the 
idea  that  Bryce  guessed  the  sale  to  be  a  matter  of 
necessity.  "  I  was  going  to  see  after  him,  —  I 
thought  some  mischief  had  happened.  I  '11  go  back 
now,"  he  added,  turning  the  horse's  head,  and  wish- 
ing he  could  get  rid  of  Bryce ;  for  he  felt  that  the 
long-dreaded  crisis  in  his  life  was  close  upon  him. 
"  You  're  coming  on  to  Raveloe,  are  n't  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  no,  not  now,"  said  Bryce.  "  I  luas  com- 
ing round  there,  for  I  had  to  go  to  Flitton,  and  I 
thought  I  might  as  well  take  you  in  my  way,  and 
just  let  you  know  all  I  knew  myself  about  the 
horse.  I  suppose  Master  Dunsey  did  n't  like  to 
show  himself  till  the  ill  news  had  blown  over  a  bit. 
He 's  perhaps  gone  to  pay  a  visit  at  the  Three  Crowns 
by  AVhitbridge,  —  I  know  he  's  fond  of  the  house." 

"Perhaps  he  is,"  said  Godfrey,  rather  absently. 
Then  rousing  himself,  he  said,  with  an  effort  at 
carelessness,  "  We  shall  hear  of  him  soon  enough, 
I'll  be  bound." 

"  Well,  here  's  my  turning,"  said  Bryce,  not  sur- 
prised to  perceive  that  Godfrey  was  rather  "  down  ; " 
"  so  I  '11  bid  you  good-day,  and  wish  I  may  bring 
you  better  news  another  time." 

Godfrey  rode  along  slowly,  representing  to  him- 


90  SILAS  MARNER. 

self  the  scene  of  confession  to  his  father  from  which 
he  felt  that  there  was  now  no  longer  any  escape. 
The  revelation  about  the  money  must  be  made  the 
very  next  morning ;  and  if  he  withheld  the  rest, 
Dunstan  would  be  sure  to  come  back  shortly,  and, 
finding  that  he  must  bear  the  brunt  of  his  father's 
anger,  would  tell  the  whole  story  out  of  s^iite,  even 
though  he  had  nothing  to  gain  by  it.  There  was 
one  step,  perhaps,  by  which  he  might  still  win 
Dunstan's  silence  and  put  off  the  evil  day  :  he  might 
tell  his  father  that  he  had  himself  spent  the  money 
paid  to  him  by  Fowler ;  and  as  he  had  never  been 
guilty  of  such  an  offence  before,  the  affair  would 
blow  over  after  a  little  storming.  But  Godfrey 
could  not  bend  himself  to  this.  He  felt  that  in 
letting  Dunstan  have  the  money,  he  had  already 
been  guilty  of  a  breach  of  trust  hardly  less  cul- 
pable than  that  of  spending  the  money  directly  for 
his  own  behoof  ;  and  yet  there  was  a  distinction 
between  the  two  acts  which  made  him  feel  that 
the  one  was  so  much  more  blackening  than  the 
other  as  to  be  intolerable  to  him. 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  good  fellow,"  he  said  to 
himself  ;  "  but  I  'm  not  a  scoundrel,  —  at  least,  I  '11 
stop  short  somewhere.  I  '11  bear  the  consequences 
of  what  I  have  done  sooner  than  make  believe  I  've 
done  what  I  never  would  have  done.  I  'd  never  have 
spent  the  money  for  my  own  pleasure,  —  I  was 
tortured  into  it." 

Through  the  remainder  of  this  day  Godfrey,  with 
only  occasional  fluctuations,  kept  his  will  bent  in 
the  direction  of  a  complete  avowal  to  his  father, 
and  he  withheld  the  story  of  Wildfire's  loss  till 
the  next  morning,  that  it  might  serve  him  as  an 
introduction   to   heavier   matter.     The   old    Squire 


SILAS  MARNER.  91 

was  accustomed  to  his  son's  frequent  absence  from 
home,  and  thought  neither  Dunstan's  nor  Wildfire's 
non-appearance  a  matter  calling  for  remark,  God- 
frey said  to  himself  again  and  again,  that  if  he  let 
slip  this  one  opportunity  of  confession,  he  might 
never  have  another ;  the  revelation  might  be  made 
even  in  a  more  odious  way  than  by  Dunstan's 
malignity :  she  might  come  as  she  had  threat- 
ened to  do.  And  then  he  tried  to  make  the  scene 
easier  to  himself  by  rehearsal :  he  made  up  his 
mind  how  he  would  pass  from  the  admission  of  his 
weakness  in  letting  Dunstan  have  the  money  to 
the  fact  that  Dunstan  had  a  hold  on  him  which 
he  had  been  unable  to  shake  off,  and  how  he  would 
work  up  his  father  to  expect  something  very  bad 
before  he  told  him  the  fact.  The  old  Squire  was 
an  implacable  man :  he  made  resolutions  in  violent 
anger,  and  he  was  not  to  be  moved  from  them  after 
his  anger  had  subsided,  —  as  fiery  volcanic  matters 
cool  and  harden  into  rock.  Like  many  violent  and 
implacable  men,  he  allowed  evils  to  grow  under 
favour  of  his  own  heedlessness,  till  they  pressed 
upon  him  with  exasperating  force,  and  then  he 
turned  round  with  fierce  severity  and  became  un- 
relentingly hard.  This  was  his  system  with  his 
tenants :  he  allowed  them  to  get  into  arrears,  neg- 
lect their  fences,  reduce  their  stock,  sell  their  straw, 
and  otherwise  go  the  wrong  way,  —  and  then,  when 
he  became  short  of  money  in  consequence  of  this 
indulgence,  he  took  the  hardest  measures  and  would 
listen  to  no  appeal.  Godfrey  knew  all  this,  and 
felt  it  with  the  greater  force  because  he  had  con- 
stantly suffered  annoyance  from  witnessing  his 
father's  sudden  fits  of  unrelentingness,  for  which 
his  own  habitual  irresolution  deprived  him  of  all 


92  SILAS  MARNER. 

sympathy.  (He  was  not  critical  on  the  faulty 
indulgence  which  preceded  these  fits ;  that  seemed 
to  him  natural  enough.)  Still  there  was  just  the 
chance,  Godfrey  thought,  that  his  father's  pride 
might  see  this  marriage  in  a  light  that  would  in- 
duce him  to  hush  it  up,  rather  than  turn  his  son 
out  and  make  the  family  the  talk  of  the  country 
for  ten  miles  round. 

This  was  the  view  of  the  case  that  Godfrey 
managed  to  keep  before  him  pretty  closely  till 
midnight,  and  he  went  to  sleep  thinking  that  he 
had  done  with  inward  debating.  But  when  he 
awoke  in  the  still  morning  darkness  he  found  it 
impossible  to  reawaken  his  evening  thoughts;  it 
was  as  if  they  had  been  tired  out  and  were  not  to 
be  roused  to  further  work.  Instead  of  arguments 
for  confession,  he  could  now  feel  the  presence  of 
nothing  but  its  evil  consequences:  the  old  dread 
of  disgrace  came  back,  —  the  old  shrinking  from 
the  thought  of  raising  a  hopeless  barrier  between 
himself  and  Nancy,  —  the  old  disposition  to  rely 
on  chances  which  might  be  favourable  to  him,  and 
save  him  from  betrayal.  Why,  after  all,  should  he 
cut  off  the  hope  of  them  by  his  own  act  ?  He  had 
seen  the  matter  in  a  wrong  light  yesterday.  He 
had  been  in  a  rage  with  Dunstan,  and  had  thought 
of  nothing  but  a  thorough  break-up  of  their  mutual 
understanding ;  but  what  it  would  be  really  wisest 
for  him  to  do,  was  to  try  and  soften  his  father's 
anger  against  Dunsey,  and  keep  things  as  nearly 
as  possible  in  their  old  condition.  If  Dunsey  did 
not  come  back  for  a  few  days  (and  Godfrey  did  not 
know  but  that  the  rascal  had  enough  money  in  his 
pocket  to  enable  him  to  keep  away  still  longer), 
everything  might  blow  over. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Godfrey  rose  and  took  his  own  breakfast  earlier 
than  usual,  but  lingered  in  the  wainscoted  parlour 
till  his  younger  brothers  had  finished  their  meal 
and  gone  out ;  awaiting  his  father,  who  always  took 
a  walk  with  his  managing-man  before  breakfast. 
Every  one  breakfasted  at  a  different  hour  in  the 
Red  House,  and  the  Squire  was  always  the  latest, 
giving  a  long  chance  to  a  rather  feeble  morning 
appetite  before  he  tried  it.  The  table  had  been 
spread  with  substantial  eatables  nearly  two  hours 
before  he  presented  himself,  —  a  tall,  stout  man  of 
sixty,  with  a  face  in  which  the  knit  brow  and 
rather  hard  glance  seemed  contradicted  by  the  slack 
and  feeble  mouth.  His  person  showed  marks  of 
habitual  neglect,  his  dress  was  slovenly ;  and  yet 
there  was  something  in  the  presence  of  the  old 
Squire  distinguishable  from  that  of  the  ordinary 
farmers  in  the  parish,  who  were  perhaps  every  whit 
as  refined  as  he,  but,  having  slouched  their  way 
through  life  with  a  consciousness  of  being  in  the 
vicinity  of  their  "betters,"  wanted  that  self-possession 
and  authoritativeness  of  voice  and  carriage  which 
belonged  to  a  man  who  thought  of  superiors  as  re- 
mote existences  with  whom  he  had  personally  little 
more  to  do  than  with  America  or  the  stars.  Tlie 
Squire  had  been  used  to  parish  homage  all  his  life, 
used  to  the  presupposition  that  his  family,  his  tank- 
ards, and  everything  that  was  his,  were  the  oldest 
and  best ;  and  as  he  never  associated  with  any  gen- 


94  SILAS  MARKER. 

try  higher  than  himself,  his  opinion  was  not  dis- 
turbed by  comparison. 

He  glanced  at  his  son  as  he  entered  the  room, 
and  said,  "  What,  sir !  have  n't  you  had  your  break- 
fast yet  ? "  but  there  was  no  pleasant  morning 
greeting  between  them ;  not  because  of  any  un- 
friendliness, but  because  the  sweet  flower  of  cour- 
tesy is  not  a  growth  of  such  homes  as  the  Eed 
House. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Godfrey,  "  I  've  had  my  breakfast, 
but  I  was  waiting  to  speak  to  you." 

"  Ah  !  well,"  said  the  Squire,  throwing  himself 
indifferently  into  his  chair,  and  speaking  in  a  pon- 
derous coughing  fashion,  which  was  felt  in  Raveloe 
to  be  a  sort  of  privilege  of  his  rank,  while  he  cut 
a  piece  of  beef,  and  held  it  up  before  the  deerhound 
that  had  come  in  with  him.  "  Ring  the  bell  for  my 
ale,  will  you  ?  You  youngsters'  business  is  your 
own  pleasure,  mostly.  There's  no  hurry  about  it 
for  anybody  but  yourselves." 

The  Squire's  life  was  quite  as  idle  as  his  sons', 
/  but  it  was  a  fiction  kept  up  by  himself  and  his  con- 
temporaries in  Eaveloe  that  youth  was  exclusively 
the  period  of  folly,  and  that  their  aged  wisdom  was 
constantly  in  a  state  of  endurance  mitigated  by  sar- 
casm. Godfrey  waited,  before  he  spoke  again,  until 
the  ale  had  been  brought  and  the  door  closed,  —  an 
interval  during  which  Fleet,  the  deer-hound,  had 
consumed  enough  bits  of  beef  to  make  a  poor  man's 
holiday  dinner. 

"  There 's  been  a  cursed  piece  of  ill-luck  with 
Wildfire,"  he  began ;  "  happened  the  day  before 
yesterday." 

"What !  broke  his  knees?"  said  the  Squire,  after 
taking  a  draught  of  ale.     "  I  thought  you  knew  how 


SILAS  MARNER.  95 

to  ride  better  than  that,  sir.  I  never  threw  a  horse 
down  in  my  life.  If  I  had,  I  might  ha'  whistled 
for  another,  for  my  father  was  n't  quite  so  ready  to 
unstring  as  some  other  fathers  I  know  of.  But 
they  must  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  —  they  must. 
What  with  mortgages  and  arrears,  I  'm  as  short  o' 
cash  as  a  roadside  pauper.  And  that  fool  Kimble 
says  the  newspaper's  talking  about  peace.  Why, 
the  country  wouldn't  have  a  leg  to  stand  on. 
Prices  'ud  run  down  like  a  jack,  and  I  should  never 
get  my  arrears,  not  if  I  sold  all  the  fellows  up. 
And  there  's  that  damned  Fowler,  I  won't  put  up 
with  him  any  longer ;  I  've  told  Wmthrop  to  go  to 
Cox  this  very  day.  The  lying  scoundrel  told  me 
he  'd  be  sure  to  pay  me  a  hundred  last  month.  He 
takes  advantage  because  he 's  on  that  outlying 
farm,  and  thinks  I  shall  forget  him. " 

The  Squire  had  delivered  this  speech  in  a  cough- 
ing and  interrupted  manner,  but  with  no  pause 
long  enough  for  Godfrey  to  make  it  a  pretext  for 
taking  up  the  word  again.  He  felt  that  his  father 
meant  to  ward  off  any  request  for  money  on  the 
ground  of  the  misfortune  with  Wildfire,  and  that 
the  emphasis  he  had  thus  been  led  to  lay  on  his 
shortness  of  cash  and  Ms  arrears  was  likely  to  pro- 
duce an  attitude  of  mind  the  utmost  unfavourable 
for  his  own  disclosure.  But  he  must  go  on,  now  he 
had  begun. 

"  It 's  worse  than  breaking  the  horse's  knees,  — 
he  's  been  staked  and  killed,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  his 
father  was  silent,  and  had  begun  to  cut  his  meat. 
"  But  I  was  n't  thinking  of  asking  you  to  buy  me 
another  horse ;  I  was  only  thinking  I  'd  lost  the 
means  of  paying  you  with  the  price  of  Wildfire,  as 
I  'd  meant  to  do.     Dunsey  took  him  to  the  hunt 


96  SILAS  MARNER. 

to  sell  him  for  me  the  other  day,  and  after  he  'd 
made  a  bargain  for  a  hundred  and  twenty  with 
Bryce,  he  went  after  the  hounds,  and  took  some 
fool's  leap  or  other  that  did  for  the  horse  at  once. 
If  it  had  n't  been  for  that,  I  should  have  paid  you  a 
hundred  pounds  this  morning." 

The  Squire  had  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and 
was  staring  at  his  son  in  amazement,  not  being 
sufficiently  quick  of  brain  to  form  a  probable  guess 
as  to  what  could  have  caused  so  strange  an  inversion 
of  the  paternal  and  filial  relations  as  this  proposition 
of  his  son  to  pay  him  a  hundred  pounds. 

"  The  truth  is,  sir  —  I  'm  very  sorry  —  I  was 
quite  to  blame,"  said  Godfrey.  "Eowler  did  pay 
that  hundred  pounds.  He  paid  it  to  me,  when  I 
was  over  there  one  day  last  month.  And  Dunsey 
bothered  me  for  the  money,  and  I  let  him  have  it, 
because  I  hoped  I  should  be  able  to  pay  it  you 
before  this." 

The  Squire  was  purple  with  anger  before  his  son 
had  done  speaking,  and  found  utterance  difficult. 
"  You  let  Dunsey  have  it,  sir  ?  And  how  long  have 
you  been  so  thick  with  Dunsey  that  you  must 
collogue  with  him  to  embezzle  my  money  ?  Are 
you  turning  out  a  scamp  ?  I  tell  you  I  won't  have 
it.  I'll  turn  the  w^hole  pack  of  you  out  of  the 
house  together,  and  marry  again.  I  'd  have  you  to 
remember,  sir,  my  property  's  got  no  entail  on  it ;  — 
since  my  grandfather's  time  the  Casses  can  do  as 
they  like  with  their  land.  Remember  that,  sir. 
Let  Dunsey  have  the  money !  Why  should  you 
let  Dunsey  have  the  money  ?  There 's  some  lie  at 
the  bottom  of  it." 

"  There 's  no  lie,  sir,"  said  Godfrey.  "  I  would  n't 
have  spent  the  money  myself,  but  Dunsey  bothered 


SILAS  MARNER.  97 

me,  and  I  was  a  fool,  and  let  liiin  have  it.  But  I 
meant  to  pay  it,  whether  he  did  or  not.  That 's  the 
whole  story.  I  never  meant  to  embezzle  money, 
and  I  'm  not  the  man  to  do  it.  You  never  knew 
rae  do  a  dishonest  trick,  sir  ? " 

"  Where  's  Dunsey,  then  ?  What  do  you  stand 
talking  there  for  ?  Go  and  fetch  Dunsey,  as  I  tell 
you,  and  let  Mm  give  account  of  what  he  wanted 
the  money  for,  and  what  he  's  done  with  it.  He 
shall  repent  it.  I  '11  turn  him  out.  I  said  I  would, 
and  I  '11  do  it.  He  sha'n't  brave  me.  Go  and  fetch 
him." 

"  Dunsey  is  n't  come  back,  sir." 

"  What !  did  he  break  his  own  neck,  then  ?  "  said 
the  Squu-e,  with  some  disgust  at  the  idea  that,  in 
that  case,  he  could  not  fulfil  his  threat. 

"  Xo,  he  was  n't  hurt,  I  believe,  for  the  horse  was 
found  dead,  and  Dunsey  must  have  walked  off.  I 
dare  say  we  shall  see  him  again  by  and  by.  I  don't 
know  where  he  is." 

"  And  what  must  you  be  letting  him  have  my 
money  for  ?  Answer  me  that,"  said  the  Squire, 
attacking  Godfrey  again,  since  Dunsey  was  not 
within  reach. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  don't  know,"  said  Godfrey,  hesitat- 
ingly. That  was  a  feeble  evasion,  but  Godfrey  was 
not  fond  of  lying,  and,  not  being  sufficiently  aware 
that  no  sort  of  duplicity  can  long  flourish  without 
the  help  of  vocal  falsehoods,  he  was  quite  unpre- 
pared with  irivented  motives. 

"  You  don't  know  ?  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  sir. 
You  've  been  up  to  some  trick,  and  you  've  been 
bribing  him  not  to  tell,"  said  the  Squire,  with  a 
sudden  acuteness  which  startled  Godfrey,  who  felt 
his   heart   beat   violently  at   the   nearness   of   his 


98  SILAS  MARNER. 

father's  guess.  The  sudden  alarm  pushed  him  on 
to  take  the  next  step,  —  a  very  slight  impulse 
suffices  for  that  on  a  downward  road. 

"  Why,  sir,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  with  careless 
ease,  "  it  was  a  little  affair  between  me  and  Dunsey ; 
it's  no  matter  to  anybody  else.  It's  hardly  worth 
while  to  pry  into  young  men's  fooleries  :  it  would  n't 
have  made  any  difierence  to  you,  sir,  if  I  'd  not  had 
the  bad  luck  to  lose  Wildfire.  I  should  have  paid 
you  the  money." 

"  Fooleries  !  Pshaw  !  it 's  time  you  'd  done  with 
fooleries.  And  I'd  have  you  know,  sir,  you  must 
ha'  done  with  'em,"  said  the  Squire,  frowning  and 
casting  an  angry  glance  at  his  son.  "Your  go- 
ings-on are  not  what  I  shall  find  money  for  any 
longer.  There  's  my  grandfather  had  his  stables 
full  o'  horses,  and  kept  a  good  house,  too,  and  in 
worse  times,  by  what  I  can  make  out ;  and  so  might 
I,  if  I  had  n't  four  good-for-nothing  fellow^s  to  hang 
on  me  like  horse-leeches.  I  've  been  too  good  a 
father  to  you  all,  —  that 's  what  it  is.  But  I  shall 
pull  up,  sir." 

Godfrey  was  silent.  He  was  not  likely  to  be 
very  penetrating  in  his  judgments,  but  he  had 
always  had  a  sense  that  his  father's  indulgence 
had  not  been  kindness,  and  had  had  a  vague  long- 
ing for  some  discipline  that  would  have  checked 
his  own  errant  weakness  and  helped  his  better 
will.  The  Squire  ate  his  bread  and  meat  hastily, 
took  a  deep  draught  of  ale,  then  turned  his  chair 
from  the  table,  and  began  to  speak  again. 

"It'll  be  all  the  worse  for  you,  you  know, — 
you  'd  need  try  and  help  me  keep  things  together." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  've  often  offered  to  take  the  manage- 
ment of  things,  but  you  know  you  've  taken  it  ill 


SILAS  MARKER.  99 

always,  and  seemed  to  think  I  wanted  to  push  you 
out  of  your  place." 

"  I  know  nothing  o'  your  offering  or  o'  my  taking 
it  ill,"  said  the  Squire,  whose  memory  consisted  in 
certain  strong  impressions  unmodified  by  detail; 
"  but  I  know  one  while  you  seemed  to  be  thinking 
o'  marrying,  and  I  didn't  offer  to  put  any  obstacles 
in  your  way,  as  some  fathers  would.  I  'd  as  lieve 
you  married  Lammeter's  daughter  as  anybody.  I 
suppose,  if  I  'd  said  you  nay,  you  'd  ha'  kept  on  with 
it ;  but,  for  want  0'  contradiction,  you  've  changed 
your  mind.  You  're  a  shilly-shally  fellow :  you 
take  after  your  poor  mother.  She  never  had  a  will 
of  her  own ;  a  woman  has  no  call  for  one,  if  she  's 
got  a  proper  man  for  her  husband.  But  your  wife 
had  need  have  one,  for  you  hardly  know  your  own 
mind  enough  to  make  both  your  legs  walk  one  way. 
The  lass  has  n't  said  downright  she  won't  have  you, 
has  she  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Godfrey,  feeling  very  hot  and  uncom- 
fortable ;  "  but  I  don't  tliink  she  will." 

"  Tliink  !  Why  have  n't  you  the  courage  to  ask 
her  ?  Do  you  stick  to  it,  you  want  to  have  her,  — 
that 's  the  thing  ? " 

"  There 's  no  other  woman  I  want  to  marry,"  said 
Godfrey,  evasively. 

"  Well,  then,  let  me  make  the  offer  for  you,  that 's 
all,  if  you  haven't  the  pluck  to  do  it  yourself. 
Lammeter  is  n't  likely  to  be  loath  for  his  daughter 
to  marry  into  my  family,  I  should  think.  And  as 
for  the  pretty  lass,  she  would  n't  have  her  cousin, 
—  and  there 's  nobody  else,  as  I  see,  could  ha'  stood 
in  your  way." 

"  I  'd  rather  let  it  be,  please,  sir,  at  present,"  said 
Godfrey,  in  alarm.     "  I  think  she 's  a  little  offended 


100  SILAS  MARNER. 

with  me  just  now,  and  I  should  like  to  speak  for 
myself.  A  man  must  manage  these  things  for 
himself." 

"  Well,  speak,  then,  and  manage  it,  and  see  if  you 
can't  turn  over  a  new  leaf.  That's  what  a  man 
must  do  when  he  thinks  o'  marrying." 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  can  think  of  it  at  present,  sir. 
You  would  n't  like  to  settle  me  on  one  of  the  farms, 
I  suppose,  and  I  don't  think  she  'd  come  to  live  in 
this  house  with  all  my  brothers.  It 's  a  different 
sort  of  life  to  what  she 's  been  used  to." 

"  Not  come  to  live  in  this  house  ?  Don't  tell  me. 
You  ask  her,  that's  all,"  said  the  Squire,  with  a 
short,  scornful  laugh. 

"  I  'd  rather  let  the  thing  be,  at  present,  sir,"  said 
Godfrey.  "  I  hope  you  won't  try  to  hurry  it  on  by 
saying  anything." 

"I  shall  do  what  I  choose,"  said  the  Squire,  "and 
I  shall  let  you  know  I  'm  master ;  else  you  may 
turn  out,  and  find  an  estate  to  drop  into  somewhere 
else.  Go  out  and  tell  Winthrop  not  to  go  to  Cox's, 
but  wait  for  me.  And  tell  'em  to  get  my  horse 
saddled.  And  stop  :  look  out  and  get  that  hack 
o'  Dunsey's  sold,  and  hand  me  the  money,  will  you  ? 
He  '11  keep  no  more  hacks  at  my  expense.  And  if 
you  know  where  he 's  sneaking,  —  I  dare  say  you 
do,  —  you  may  tell  him  to  spare  himself  the  jour- 
ney o'  coming  back  home.  Let  him  turn  ostler, 
and  keep  himself.  He  sha'n't  hang  on  me  any 
more." 

"  I  don't  know  where  he  is ;  and  if  I  did,  it  is  n't 
my  place  to  tell  him  to  keep  away,"  said  Godfrey, 
moving  towards  the  door. 

"  Confound  it,  sir,  don't  stay  arguing,  but  go  and 
order  my  horse,"  said  the  Squire,  taking  up  a  pipe. 


SILAS  MARNER.  loi 

Godfrey  left  the  room,  hardly  knowmg  whether 
he  were  more  relieved  by  the  sense  that  the  inter- 
view was  ended  without  having  made  any  change 
in  his  position,  or  more  uneasy  that  he  had  en- 
tangled himself  still  further  in  prevarication  and 
deceit.  What  had  passed  about  his  proposing  to 
Nancy  had  raised  a  new  alarm,  lest  by  some  after- 
dinner  words  of  his  father's  to  Mr.  Lammeter  he 
should  be  thrown  into  the  embarrassment  of  being 
obliged  absolutely  to  decline  her  when  she  seemed 
to  be  within  his  reach.  He  fled  to  his  usual  refuge, 
that  of  hoping  for  some  unforeseen  turn  of  fortune, 
some  favourable  chance  which  would  save  him  from 
unpleasant  consequences,  —  perhaps  even  justify 
his  insincerity  by  manifesting  its  prudence. 

In  this  point  of  trusting  to  some  throw  of  for- 
tune's dice,  Godfrey  can  hardly  be  called  old- 
fashioned.  Favourable  Chance  is  the  god  of  all 
men  who  follow  their  own  devices  instead  of  obey- 
ing a  law  they  believe  in.  Let  even  a  polished 
man  of  these  days  get  into  a  position  he  is  ashamed 
to  avow,  and  his  mind  will  be  bent  on  all  the  pos- 
sible issues  that  may  deliver  him  from  the  calcu- 
lable results  of  that  position.  Let  him  live  outside 
his  income,  or  shirk  the  resolute  honest  work  that 
brings  wages,  and  he  will  presently  find  himself 
dreaming  of  a  possible  benefactor,  a  possible  sim- 
pleton who  may  be  cajoled  into  using  his  interest, 
a  possible  state  of  mind  in  some  possible  person  not 
yet  forthcoming.  Let  him  neglect  the  responsibili- 
ties of  his  office,  and  he  will  inevitably  anchor  him- 
self on  the  chance  that  the  thing  left  undone  may 
turn  out  not  to  be  of  the  supposed  importance. 
Let  him  betray  his  friend's  confidence,  and  he  will 
adore  that  same  cunning  complexity  called  Chance, 


102  SILAS  MARNER. 

which  gives  him  the  hope  that  his  friend  will  never 
know.  Let  him  forsake  a  decent  craft  that  he 
may  pursue  the  gentilities  of  a  profession  to  which 
nature  never  called  him,  and  his  religion  will  infal- 
libly be  the  worship  of  blessed  Chance,  which  he 
will  believe  in  as  the  mighty  creator  of  success. 
The  evil  principle  deprecated  in  that  religion  is 
the  orderly  sequence  by  which  the  seed  brings 
forth  a  crop  after  its  kind. 


CHAPTEK  X. 

Justice  Malam  was  naturally  regarded  in  Tarley 
and  Raveloe  as  a  man  of  capacious  mind,  seeing 
that  he  could  draw  much  wider  conclusions  with- 
out evidence  than  could  be  expected  of  his  neigh- 
bours who  were  not  on  the  Commission  of  the  Peace. 
Such  a  man  was  not  likely  to  neglect  the  clew  of 
the  tinder-box,  and  an  inquiry  was  set  on  foot  con- 
cerning a  pedler,  name  unknown,  with  curly  black 
hair  and  a  foreign  complexion,  carrying  a  box  of 
cutlery  and  jewelry,  and  wearing  large  rings  in  his 
ears.  But  either  because  inquiry  was  too  slow- 
footed  to  overtake  him,  or  because  the  description 
applied  to  so  many  pedlers  that  inquiry  did  not 
know  how  to  choose  among  them,  weeks  passed 
away,  and  there  was  no  other  result  concerning 
the  robbery  than  a  gradual  cessation  of  the  excite- 
ment it  had  caused  in  Eaveloe.  Dunstan  Cass's 
absence  was  hardly  a  subject  of  remark  :  he  had 
once  before  had  a  quarrel  with  his  father,  and  had 
gone  off,  nobody  knew  whither,  to  return  at  the 
end  of  six  weeks,  take  up  his  old  quarters  unfor- 
bidden, and  swagger  as  usual.  His  own  family, 
who  equally  expected  this  issue,  with  the  sole 
difference  that  the  Squire  was  determined  this 
time  to  forbid  him  the  old  quarters,  never  men- 
tioned his  absence ;  and  when  his  uncle  Kimble 
or  Mr.  Osgood  noticed  it,  the  story  of  his  having 
killed  Wildfire  and  committed  some  offence  against 
his  father  was  enough  to  prevent  surprise.     To  con- 


I04  SILAS  MARNER. 

nect  the  fact  of  Dunsey's  disappearance  with  that 
of  the  robbery  occurring  on  the  same  day,  lay  quite 
away  from  the  track  of  every  one's  thought,  -^  even 
Godfrey's,  who  had  better  reason  than  any  one  else 
to  know  what  his  brother  was  capable  of.  He  re- 
membered no  mention  of  the  weaver  between  them 
since  the  time,  twelve  years  ago,  when  it  was  their 
boyish  sport  to  deride  him ;  and,  besides,  his  ima- 
gination constantly  created  an  alibi  for  Dunstan: 
he  saw  him  continually  in  some  congenial  haunt, 
to  which  he  had  walked  off  on  leaving  Wildfire,  — 
saw  him  sponging  on  chance  acquaintances,  and 
meditating  a  return  home  to  the  old  amusement 
of  tormenting  his  elder  brother.  Even  if  any  brain 
in  Eaveloe  had  put  the  said  two  facts  together,  I 
doubt  whether  a  combination  so  injurious  to  the 
prescriptive  respectability  of  a  family  with  a  mural 
monument  and  venerable  tankards,  would  not  have 
been  suppressed  as  of  unsound  tendency.  But 
Christmas  puddings,  brawn,  and  abundance  of  spi- 
rituous liquors,  throwing  the  mental  originality 
into  the  channel  of  nightmare,  are  great  preserva- 
tives against  a  dangerous  spontaneity  of  waking 
thought. 

When  the  robbery  was  talked  of  at  the  Eainbow 
and  elsewhere,  in  good  company,  the  balance  con- 
tinued to  waver  between  the  rational  explanation 
founded  on  the  tinder-box,  and  the  theory  of  an 
impenetrable  mystery  that  mocked  investigation. 
The  advocates  of  the  tinder-box-and-pedler  view 
considered  the  other  side  a  muddle-headed  and 
credulous  set,  who,  because  they  themselves  were 
wall-eyed,  supposed  everybody  else  to  have  the  same 
blank  outlook ;  and  the  adherents  of  the  inexpli- 
cable more  than  hinted  that  their  antagonists  were 


SILAS  MARKER.  105 

animals  inclined  to  crow  before  they  had  found  any 
corn,  —  mere  skimming-dishes  in  point  of  depth,  — 
whose  clear-sightedness  consisted  in  supposing  there 
was  notliing  behind  a  barn-door  because  they 
could  n  't  see  through  it ;  so  that,  though  their  con- 
troversy did  not  serve  to  elicit  the  fact  concerning 
the  robbery,  it  elicited  some  true  opinions  of  collat- 
eral importance. 

But  while  poor  Silas's  loss  served  thus  to  brush 
the  slow  current  of  Raveloe  conversation,  Silas 
himself  was  feeling  the  withering  desolation  of  that 
bereavement  about  which  his  neighbours  were  arguing 
at  their  ease.  To  any  one  who  had  observed  him 
before  he  lost  his  gold,  it  might  have  seemed  that 
so  withered  and  shrunken  a  life  as  his  could  hardly 
be  susceptible  of  a  bruise,  could  hardly  endure  any 
"subtraction  but  such  as  would  put  an  end  to  it 
altogether.  But  in  reality  it  had  been  an  eager  life, 
filled  with  immediate  purpose  which  fenced  him  in 
from  the  wide,  cheerless  unknown.  It  had  been  a 
clinging  life ;  and  though  the  object  round  which  its 
fibres  had  clung  was  a  dead  disrupted  tiling,  it  sat- 
isfied the  need  for  clinging.  But  now  the  fence  was 
broken  down, —  the  support  was  snatched  away. 
Marner's  thoughts  could  no  longer  move  in  their  old 
round,  and  were  baffled  by  a  blank  like  that  which 
meets  a  plodding  ant  when  the  earth  has  broken 
away  on  its  homeward  path.  The  loom  was  there, 
and  the  weaving,  and  the  growing  pattern  in  the 
cloth  ;  but  the  bright  treasure  in  the  hole  under  his 
feet  was  gone  ;  the  prospect  of  handling  and  counting 
it  was  gone  ;  the  evening  had  no  phantasm  of  delight 
to  still  the  poor  soul's  craving.  The  thought  of  the 
money  he  would  get  by  his  actual  work  could  bring 
no  joy,  for  its  meagre  image  was  only  a  fresh  reminder 


io6  SILAS   MARNER. 

of  his  loss :  and  hope  was  too  heavily  crushed  by  the 
sudden  blow,  for  his  imagination  to  dwell  on  the 
growth  of  a  new  hoard  from  that  small  beginning. 

He  filled  up  the  blank  with  grief.  As  he  sat 
weaving,  he  every  now  and  then  moaned  low,  like 
one  in  pain :  it  was  the  sign  that  his  thoughts  had 
come  round  again  to  the  sudden  chasm,  —  to  the 
empty  evening  time.  And  all  the  evening,  as  he 
satin  his  loneliness  by  his  dull  fire,  he  leaned  his 
elbows  on  his  knees,  and  clasped  his  head  with  his 
hands,  and  moaned  very  low,  —  not  as  one  who  seeks 
to  be  heard. 

And  yet  he  was  not  utterly  forsaken  in  his 
trouble.  The  repulsion  Marner  had  always  created 
in  his  neighbours  was  partly  dissipated  by  the  new 
light  in  which  this  misfortune  had  shown  him. 
Instead  of  a  man  who  had  more  cunning  than  hon- 
est folks  could  come  by,  and,  what  was  worse,  had 
not  the  inclination  to  use  that  cunning  in  a  neigh- 
bourly way,  it  was  now  apparent  that  Silas  had  not 
cunning  enough  to  keep  his  own.  He  was  generally 
spoken  of  as  a  "  poor  mushed  creatur ; "  and  that 
avoidance  of  his  neighbours,  which  had  before  been 
referred  to  his  ill-will  and  to  a  probable  addiction  to 
worse  company,  was  now  considered  mere  craziness. 

This  change  to  a  kindlier  feeling  was  shown  in 
various  ways.  The  odour  of  Christmas  cooking 
being  on  the  wind,  it  was  the  season  when  super- 
fluous pork  and  black  puddings  are  suggestive  of 
charity  in  well-to-do  families ;  and  Silas's  misfortune 
had  brought  him  uppermost  in  the  memory  of  house- 
keepers like  Mrs.  Osgood.  Mr.  Crackenthorp,  too, 
while  he  admonished  Silas  that  his  money  had 
probably  been  taken  from  him  because  he  thought 
too  much  of  it  and  never  came  to  church,  enforced 


SILAS  MARNER.  107 

the  doctrine  by  a  present  of  pigs'  pettitoes,  well  cal- 
culated to  dissipate  unfounded  prejudices  against 
the  clerical  character.  Neighbours  who  had  nothing 
but  verbal  consolation  to  give  showed  a  disposition 
not  only  to  greet  Silas  and  discuss  his  misfortune 
at  some  length  when  they  encountered  him  in  the 
village,  but  also  to  take  the  trouble  of  callmg  at 
his  cottage  and  getting  him  to  repeat  all  the  details 
on  the  very  spot ;  and  then  they  would  try  to  cheer 
him  by  saying,  "  Well,  Master  Marner,  you  're  no 
worse  off  nor  other  poor  folks,  after  all;  and  if 
you  was  to  be  crippled,  the  parish  'ud  give  you  a 
'lowance." 

I  suppose  one  reason  why  we  are  seldom  able  to 
comfort  our  neighbours  with  our  words  is  that  our 
good- will  gets  adulterated,  in  spite  of  ourselves,  be- 
fore it  can  pass  our  lips.  We  can  send  black  pud- 
dings and  pettitoes  without  giving  them  a  flavour 
of  our  own  egoism ;  but  language  is  a  stream  that  is 
almost  sure  to  smack  of  a  mingled  soil.  There  was 
a  fair  proportion  of  kindness  in  Eaveloe ;  but  it 
was  often  of  a  beery  and  bungling  sort,  and  took 
the  shape  least  allied  to  the  complimentary  and 
hypocritical. 

Mr.  Macey,  for  example,  coming  one  evening 
expressly  to  let  Silas  know  that  recent  events  had 
given  him  the  advantage  of  standing  more  favour- 
ably in  the  opinion  of  a  man  whose  judgment  was 
not  formed  lightly,  opened  the  conversation  by  say- 
ing, as  soon  as  he  had  seated  himself  and  adjusted 
his  thumbs,  — 

"  Come,  Master  Marner,  why,  you  've  no  call  to 
sit  a-moaning.  You  're  a  deal  better  off  to  ha'  lost 
your  money,  nor  to  ha'  kep'  it  by  foul  means.  I 
used  to  think,  when  you  first  come  into  these  parts, 


io8  SILAS  MARNER. 

as  you  were  no  better  nor  you  should  be  ;  you  were 
younger  a  deal  than  what  you  are  now ;  but  you 
were  allays  a  starmg,  white-faced  creatur,  partly 
like  a  bald-faced  calf,  as  I  may  say.  But  there  's  no 
knowing :  it  is  n't  every  queer-looksed  thing  as  Old 
Harry  's  had  the  making  of,  —  I  mean,  speaking  o' 
toads  and  such ;  for  they  're  often  harmless,  and  use- 
ful against  varmin.  And  it 's  pretty  much  the  same 
wi'  you,  as  fur  as  I  can  see.  Though  as  to  the  yarbs 
and  stuff  to  cure  the  breathing,  if  you  brought  that 
sort  o'  knowledge  from  distant  parts,  you  might  ha' 
been  a  bit  freer  of  it.  And  if  the  knowledge  was  n't 
well  come  by,  why,  you  might  ha'  made  up  for  it  by 
coming  to  church  reg'lar  ;  for  as  for  the  children  as 
the  Wise  Woman  charmed,  I  've  been  at  the  chris- 
tening of  'em  again  and  again,  and  they  took  the 
water  just  as  well.  And  that 's  reasonable  ;  for  if 
Old  Harry  's  a  mind  to  do  a  bit  o'  kindness  for  a 
holiday,  like,  who 's  got  anything  against  it  ?  That 's 
my  thinking ;  and  I  've  been  clerk  o'  this  parish 
forty  year,  and  I  know,  when  the  parson  and  me 
does  the  cussing  of  a  Ash  Wednesday,  there  's  no 
cussing  o'  folks  as  have  a  mind  to  be  cured  without 
a  doctor,  let  Kimble  say  what  he  will.  And  so, 
Master  Marner,  as  I  was  saying,  —  for  there  's  wind- 
ings i'  things  as  they  may  carry  you  to  the  fur  end 
o'  the  prayer-book  afore  you  get  back  to  'em,  —  my 
advice  is,  as  you  keep  up  your  sperrits ;  for  as  for 
thinking  you  're  a  deep  un,  and  ha'  got  more  inside 
you  nor  'ull  bear  daylight,  I  'm  not  o'  that  opinion 
at  all,  and  so  I  tell  the  neighbours.  For,  says  I,  you 
talk  o'  Master  Marner  making  out  a  tale,  —  why, 
it 's  nonsense,  that  is :  it  'ud  take  a  'cute  man  to 
make  a  tale  like  that ;  and,  says  I,  he  looked  as 
scared  as  a  rabbit." 


SILAS  MARNER.  109 

During  this  discursive  address  Silas  had  contin- 
ued motionless  in  his  previous  attitude,  leaning  his 
elbows  on  his  knees,  and  pressing  his  hands  against 
his  head.  Mr.  Macey,  not  doubting  that  he  had 
been  listened  to,  paused,  in  the  expectation  of  some 
appreciatory  reply,  but  Marner  remained  silent.  He 
had  a  sense  that  the  old  man  meant  to  be  good- 
natured  and  neighbourly  ;  but  the  kindness  fell  on 
him  as  sunshine  falls  on  the  wretched,  —  he  had  no 
heart  to  taste  it,  and  felt  that  it  was  very  far  off 
him. 

"  Come,  Master  Marner,  have  you  got  nothing  to 
say  to  that  ? "  said  Mr.  Macey  at  last,  with  a  slight 
accent  of  impatience. 

"  Oh,"  said  Marner,  slowly,  shaking  his  head  be- 
tween his  hands,  "  I  thank  you  —  thank  you  — 
kmdly." 

"  Ay,  ay,  to  be  sure  :  I  thought  you  would,"  said 
Mr.  Macey  ;  "  and  my  advice  is  —  have  you  got  a 
Sunday  suit  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Marner. 

"  I  doubted  it  was  so,"  said  Mr.  Macey.  "  Now, 
let  me  advise  you  to  get  a  Sunday  suit :  there  's 
Tookey,  he 's  a  poor  creatur,  but  he  's  got  my  tailor- 
ing business,  and  some  o'  my  money  in  it,  and  he 
shall  make  a  suit  at  a  low  price,  and  give  you 
trust,  and  then  you  can  come  to  church,  and  be 
a  bit  neighbourly.  Why,  you  've  never  beared  me 
say  '  Amen '  since  you  come  into  these  parts,  and  I 
recommend  you  to  lose  no  time,  for  it'll  be  poor 
work  when  Tookey  has  it  all  to  himself,  for  I 
may  n't  be  equil  to  stand  i'  the  desk  at  all,  come 
another  winter."  Here  Mr.  Macey  paused,  perhaps 
expecting  some  sign  of  emotion  in  his  hearer ;  but 
not  observing  any,  he  went  on :  "  And  as  for  the 


no  SILAS  MARNER. 

money  for  the  suit  o'  clothes,  why,  you  get  a  matter 
of  a  pound  a  week  at  your  weaving,  Master  Marner, 
and  you  're  a  young  man,  eh,  for  all  you  look  so 
mushed.  Why,  you  could  n't  ha'  been  five-and- 
twenty  when  you  come  into  these  parts,  eh  ? " 

Silas  started  a  little  at  the  change  to  a  question- 
ing tone,  and  answered  mildly,  "  I  don't  know ;  I 
can't  rightly  say,  —  it's  a  long  while  since." 

After  receiving  such  an  answer  as  this,  it  is  not 
surprising  that  Mr.  Macey  observed,  later  on  in  the 
evenmg  at  the  Rainbow,  that  Marner's  head  was 
"  all  of  a  muddle,"  and  that  it  was  to  be  doubted 
if  he  ever  knew  when  Sunday  came  round,  which 
showed  him  a  worse  heathen  than  many  a  dog. 

Another  of  Silas's  comforters,  besides  Mr.  Macey, 
came  to  him  with  a  mind  highly  charged  on  the 
same  topic.  This  was  Mrs.  Winthrop,  the  wheel- 
wright's wife.  The  inhabitants  of  Raveloe  were  not 
severely  regular  in  their  church-going,  and  perhaps 
there  was  hardly  a  person  in  the  parish  who  would 
not  have  held  that  to  go  to  church  every  Sunday 
in  the  calendar  would  have  shown  a  greedy  desire 
to  stand  well  with  Heaven,  and  get  an  undue  ad- 
vantage over  their  neighbours,  —  a  wish  to  be  better 
than  the  "  common  run,"  that  would  have  implied 
a  reflection  on  those  who  had  had  godfathers  and 
godmothers  as  well  as  themselves,  and  had  an  equal 
right  to  the  burying-service.  At  the  same  time  it 
was  understood  to  be  requisite  for  all  who  were  not 
household  servants,  or  young  men,  to  take  the 
sacrament  at  one  of  the  great  festivals :  Squire  Cass 
himself  took  it  on  Christmas-day  ;  while  those  who 
were  held  to  be  "good  livers  "  went  to  church  with 
greater,  though  still  with  moderate,  frequency. 

Mrs.  Winthrop  was  one  of  these :  she  was  in  all 


SILAS  MARNER.  iii 

respects  a  woman  of  scrupulous  conscience,  so  eager 
for  duties  that  life  seemed  to  offer  them  too  scantily 
unless  she  rose  at  half-past  four,  though  this  threw 
a  scarcity  of  work  over  the  more  advanced  hours  of 
the  morning,  which  it  was  a  constant  problem  with 
her  to  remove.  Yet  she  had  not  the  vixenish 
temper  which  is  sometimes  supposed  to  be  a  neces- 
sary condition  of  such  habits :  she  was  a  very  mild, 
patient  woman,  whose  nature  it  was  to  seek  out  all 
the  sadder  and  more  serious  elements  of  life,  and 
pasture  her  mind  upon  them.  She  was  the  person 
always  first  thought  of  in  Eaveloe  when  there  was 
illness  or  death  in  a  family,  when  leeches  were  to 
be  applied,  or  there  was  a  sudden  disappointment 
in  a  monthly  nurse.  She  was  a  "  comfortable 
woman,"  —  good-looking,  fresh-complexioned,  hav- 
ing her  lips  always  slightly  screwed,  as  if  she  felt 
herself  in  a  sick-room  with  the  doctor  or  the  clergy- 
man present.  But  she  was  never  whimpering  ;  no 
one  had  seen  her  shed  tears ;  she  was  simply  grave 
and  inclined  to  shake  her  head  and  sigh,  almost 
imperceptibly,  like  a  funereal  mourner  who  is  not 
a  relation.  It  seemed  surprising  that  Ben  Winthrop, 
who  loved  his  quart-pot  and  his  joke,  got  along  so 
well  with  Dolly ;  but  she  took  her  husband's  jokes 
and  joviality  as  patiently  as  everything  else,  con- 
sidering that  "  men  ivoidcl  be  so,"  and  viewing  the 
stronger  sex  in  the  light  of  animals  whom  it  had 
pleased  Heaven  to  make  naturally  troublesome,  like 
bulls  and  turkey-cocks. 

This  good  wholesome  woman  could  hardly  fail  to 
have  her  mind  drawn  strongly  towards  Silas  Marner, 
now  that  he  appeared  in  the  light  of  a  sufferer ;  and 
one  Sunday  afternoon  she  took  her  little  boy  Aaron 
with  her,  and  went  to  call  on  Silas,  carrying  in  her 


112  SILAS  MARNER. 

hand  some  small  lard-cakes,  flat  paste-like  articles 
much  esteemed  in  Raveloe.  Aaron,  an  apple-cheeked 
youngster  of  seven,  with  a  clean  starched  frill  which 
looked  like  a  plate  for  the  apples,  needed  all  his 
adventurous  curiosity  to  embolden  him  against  the 
possibility  that  the  big-eyed  weaver  might  do  him 
some  bodily  injury ;  and  his  dubiety  was  much 
increased  when,  on  arriving  at  the  Stone-pits,  they 
heard  the  mysterious  sound  of  the  loom. 

"Ah,  it  is  as  I  thought,"  said  Mrs.  Winthrop, 
sadly. 

They  had  to  knock  loudly  before  Silas  heard 
them ;  but  when  he  did  come  to  the  door  he  showed 
no  impatience,  as  he  would  once  have  done,  at  a 
visit  that  had  been  unasked  for  and  unexpected. 
Formerly,  his  heart  had  been  as  a  locked  casket 
with  its  treasure  inside ;  but  now  the  casket  was 
empty,  and  the  lock  was  broken.  Left  groping  in 
darkness,  with  his  prop  utterly  gone,  Silas  had  in- 
evitably a  sense,  though  a  dull  and  half-despairing 
one,  that  if  any  help  came  to  him  it  must  come 
from  without;  and  there  was  a  slight  stirring  of 
expectation  at  the  sight  of  his  fellow-men,  a  faint 
consciousness  of  dependence  on  their  good-will. 
He  opened  the  door  wide  to  admit  Dolly,  but  with- 
out otherwise  returning  her  greeting  than  by  moving 
the  arm-chair  a  few  inches  as  a  sign  that  she  was 
to  sit  down  in  it.  Dolly,  as  soon  as  she  was  seated, 
removed  the  white  cloth  that  covered  her  lard-cakes, 
and  said  in  her  gravest  way,  — 

"  I  'd  a  baking  yisterday.  Master  Marner,  and  the 
Tard-cakes  turned  out  better  nor  common,  and  I  'd 
ha'  asked  you  to  accept  some,  if  you  'd  thought  well. 
I  don't  eat  such  things  myself,  for  a  bit  o'  bread 's 
what  I  like  from  one  year's  end  to  the  other ;  but 


SILAS  MARNER.  113 

men's  stomichs  are  made  so  comical,  they  want  a 
change,  —  they  do,  I  know,  God  help  'em." 

Dolly  sighed  gently  as  she  held  out  the  cakes  to 
Silas,  who  thanked  her  kindly  and  looked  very  close 
at  them,  absently,  being  accustomed  to  look  so  at 
everything  he  took  mto  his  hand,  —  eyed  all  the 
while  by  the  wondering  bright  orbs  of  the  small 
Aaron,  who  had  made  an  outwork  of  Ms  mother's 
chair,  and  was  peeping  round  from  behind  it. 

"  There 's  letters  pricked  on 'em,"  said  Dolly.  "I 
can't  read  'em  myself,  and  there  's  nobody,  not  Mr. 
Macey  himself,  rightly  knows  what  they  mean;  but 
they  've  a  good  meaning,  for  they  're  the  same  as 
is  on  the  pulpit-cloth  at  church.  What  are  they, 
Aaron,  my  dear  ?  " 

Aaron  retreated  completely  behind  his  outwork. 

"  Oh,  go,  that 's  naughty,"  said  his  mother,  mildly. 
"  Well,  whativer  the  letters  are,  they  've  a  good 
meaning ;  and  it 's  a  stamp  as  has  been  in  our 
house,  Ben  says,  ever  since  he  was  a  little  un,  and 
his  mother  used  to  put  it  on  the  cakes,  and  I  've 
allays  put  it  on  too ;  for  if  there 's  any  good,  we  've 
need  of  it  i'  this  world." 

"  It 's  I.  H.  S.,"  said  Silas,  at  which  proof  of  learn- 
ing Aaron  peeped  round  the  chair  again. 

"  Well,  to  be  sure,  you  can  read  'em  off,"  said 
Dolly.  "  Ben  's  read  'em  to  me  many  and  many  a 
time,  but  they  slip  out  o'  my  mind  again ;  the 
more 's  the  pity,  for  they  're  good  letters,  else  they 
would  n't  be  in  the  church  ;  and  so  I  prick  'em  on  all 
the  loaves  and  all  the  cakes,  though  sometimes  they 
won't  hold,  because  0'  the  rising,  —  for,  as  I  said,  if 
there  's  any  good  to  be  got  we  've  need  of  it  i'  this 
world, —  that  we  have;  and  I  hope  they'll  bring 
good  to  you,  Master  Marner,  for  it 's  wi'  that  will 


114  SII^AS  MARNER. 

I  brought  you  the  cakes ;  and  you  see  the  letters 
have  held  better  nor  common." 

Silas  was  as  unable  to  interpret  the  letters  as 
Dolly,  but  there  was  no  possibility  of  misunder- 
standing the  desire  to  give  comfort  that  made  it- 
self heard  in  her  quiet  tones.  He  said,  with  more 
feeling  than  before,  "  Thank  you,  —  thank  you 
kindly."  But  he  laid  down  the  cakes  and  seated 
himself  absently,  —  drearily  unconscious  of  any  dis- 
tinct benefit  towards  which  the  cakes  and  the  letters, 
or  even  Dolly's  kindness,  could  tend  for  him. 

"  Ah,  if  there  's  good  anywhere,  we  've  need  of 
it,"  repeated  Dolly,  who  did  not  lightly  forsake  a 
serviceable  phrase.  She  locked  at  Silas  pityingly 
as  she  went  on.  "  But  you  did  n't  hear  the  church- 
bells  this  morning,  Master  Marner  ?  I  doubt  you 
did  n't  know  it  was  Sunday.  Living  so  lone  here, 
you  lose  your  count,  I  dare  say ;  and  then,  when 
your  loom  makes  a  noise,  you  can't  hear  the  bells, 
more  partic'lar  now  the  frost  kills  the  sound." 

"  Yes,  I  did ;  I  heard  'em,"  said  Silas,  to  whom 
Sunday  bells  were  a  mere  accident  of  the  day,  and 
not  part  of  its  sacredness.  There  had  been  no  bells 
in  Lantern  Yard. 

"  Dear  heart ! "  said  Dolly,  pausing  before  she 
spoke  again.  "  But  what  a  pity  it  is  you  should 
work  of  a  Sunday,  and  not  clean  yourself,  —  if  you 
did  n't  go  to  church  ;  for  if  you  'd  a  roasting  bit,  it 
might  be  as  you  could  n't  leave  it,  being  a  lone  man. 
But  there 's  the  bakehus,  if  you  could  make  up  your 
mind  to  spend  a  twopence  on  the  oven  now  and 
then,  —  not  every  week,  in  course, —  I  shouldn't 
like  to  do  that  myself,  —  you  might  carry  your  bit 
o'  dinner  there,  for  it 's  nothing  but  right  to  have  a 
bit  o'  summat  hot  of  a  Sunday,  and  not  to  make  it 


SILAS  MARNER.  115 

as  you  can't  know  your  dinner  from  Saturday.  But 
now,  upo'  Christmas-day,  this  blessed  Christmas  as 
is  ever  coming,  if  you  was  to  take  your  dinner  to  the 
bakehus,  and  go  to  church,  and  see  the  holly  and  the 
yew,  and  hear  the  authim,  and  then  take  the  sa6ra- 
mem',  you  'd  be  a  deal  the  better,  and  you  'd  know 
which  end  you  stood  on,  and  you  could  put  your 
trust  i'  Them  as  knows  better  nor  we  do,  seein' 
you  'd  ha'  done  what  it  lies  on  us  all  to  do." 

Dolly's  exhortation,  which  was  an  unusually  long 
effort  of  speech  for  her,  was  uttered  in  the  soothing 
persuasive  tone  with  which  she  would  have  tried  to 
prevail  on  a  sick  man  to  take  his  medicine,  or  a 
basin  of  gruel  for  which  he  had  no  appetite.  Silas 
had  never  before  been  closely  urged  on  the  point  of 
his  absence  from  church,  which  had  only  been 
thought  of  as  a  part  of  his  general  queerness  ;  and 
he  was  too  direct  and  simple  to  evade  Dolly's  appeal. 

"  Nay,  nay,"  he  said,  "  I  know  nothing  0'  church. 
I  've  never  been  to  church." 

"  No  !  "  said  Dolly,  in  a  low  tone  of  wonderment. 
Then  bethinking  herself  of  Silas's  advent  from  an 
unknown  country,  she  said,  "  Could  it  ha'  been  as 
they  'd  no  church  where  you  was  born  ? " 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Silas,  meditatively,  sitting  in  his 
usual  posture  of  leaning  on  his  knees,  and  support- 
ing his  head.  "  There  was  churches  —  a  many  —  it 
was  a  big  town.  But  I  knew  nothing  of  'em,  —  I 
went  to  chapel." 

Dolly  was  much  puzzled  at  this  new  word,  but 
she  was  rather  afraid  of  inquiring  further,  lest 
"  chapel "  might  mean  some  haunt  of  wickedness. 
After  a  little  thought,  she  said,  — 

"  Well,  Master  Marner,  it 's  niver  too  late  to  turn 
over  a  new  leaf,  and  if  you  've  niver  had  no  church, 


ii6  SILAS  MARNER. 

there  's  no  telling  the  good  it  '11  do  you.  For  I  feel 
so  set  up  and  comfortable  as  niver  was,  when  I  've 
been  and  heard  the  prayers,  and  the  singing  to  the 
praise  and  glory  o'  God,  as  Mr.  Macey  gives  out  — 
and  Mr.  Crackenthorp  saying  good  words,  and  more 
partic'lar  on  Sacramen'  Day ;  and  if  a  bit  o'  trouble 
comes,  I  feel  as  I  can  put  up  wi'  it,  for  I  've  looked 
for  help  i'  the  right  quarter,  and  gev  myself  up  to 
Them  as  we  must  all  give  ourselves  up  to  at  the  last ; 
and  if  we  'n  done  our  part,  it  is  n't  to  be  believed  as 
Them  as  are  above  us  'uU  be  worse  nor  we  are,  and 
come  short  o'  Their  'n." 

Poor  Dolly's  exposition  of  her  simple  Eaveloe 
theology  fell  rather  unmeaningly  on  Silas's  ears,  for 
there  was  no  word  in  it  that  could  rouse  a  memory 
of  what  he  had  known  as  religion,  and  his  compre- 
hension was  quite  baffled  by  the  plural  pronoun, 
which  was  no  heresy  of  Dolly's,  but  only  her  way  of 
avoiding  a  presumptuous  familiarity.  He  remained 
silent,  not  feeling  inclined  to  assent  to  the  part  of 
Dolly's  speech  which  he  fully  understood,  —  her 
recommendation  that  he  should  go  to  church.  In- 
deed, Silas  was  so  unaccustomed  to  talk  beyond  the 
brief  questions  and  answers  necessary  for  the  trans- 
action of  his  simple  business,  that  words  did  not 
easily  come  to  him  without  the  urgency  of  a  distmct 
purpose. 

But  now  little  Aaron,  having  become  used  to 
the  weaver's  awful  presence,  had  advanced  to  his 
mother's  side,  and  Silas,  seeming  to  notice  him  for 
the  first  time,  tried  to  return  Dolly's  signs  of  good- 
will by  offering  the  lad  a  bit  of  lard-cake.  Aaron 
shrank  back  a  little,  and  rubbed  his  head  against 
his  mother's  shoulder,  but  still  thought  the  piece  of 
cake  worth  the  risk  of  putting  his  hand  out  for  it. 


SILAS  MARNER.  117 

"  Oh,  for  shame,  Aaron,"  said  his  mother,  taking 
him  on  her  lap,  however;  "  why,  you  don't  want' 
cake  again  yet  awhile.  He's  wonderful  hearty," 
she  went  on,  with  a  little  sigh,  —  "  that  he  is,  God 
knows.  He 's  my  youngest,  and  we  spoil  him  sadly, 
for  either  me  or  the  father  must  allays  hev  him  in 
our  sight,  —  that  we  must." 

She  stroked  Aaron's  brown  head,  and  thought  it 
must  do  Master  Marner  good  to  see  such  a  "  pictur 
of  a  child."  But  Marner,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hearth,  saw  the  neat-featured  rosy  face  as  a  mere  dim 
round,  with  two  dark  spots  in  it. 

"  And  he 's  got  a  voice  like  a  bird,  —  you  would  n't 
think,"  Dolly  went  on  ;  "  he  can  sing  a  Christmas 
carril  as  his  father 's  taught  him  ;  and  I  take  it  for 
a  token  as  he  '11  come  to  good,  as  he  can  learn  the 
good  tunes  so  quick.  Come,  Aaron,  stan'  up  and 
sing  the  carril  to  Master  Marner,  come." 

Aaron  replied  by  rubbing  his  forehead  against 
his  mother's  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  that 's  naughty,"  said  Dolly,  gently.  "  Stan' 
up,  when  mother  tells  you,  and  let  me  hold  the 
cake  till  you  've  done." 

Aaron  was  not  indisposed  to  display  his  talents, 
even  to  an  ogre,  under  protecting  circumstances ; 
and  after  a  few  more  signs  of  coyness,  consisting 
chiefly  in  rubbing  the  backs  of  his  hands  over  his 
eyes,  and  then  peeping  between  them  at  Master 
Marner,  to  see  if  he  looked  anxious  for  the  "  carril," 
he  at  length  allowed  his  head  to  be  duly  adjusted, 
and  standing  behind  the  table,  which  let  him  appear 
above  it  only  as  far  as  his  broad  frill,  so  that  he 
looked  like  a  cherubic  head  untroubled  with  a  body, 
he  began  with  a  clear  chirp,  and  in  a  melody  that 
had  the  rhythm  of  an  industrious  hammer,  — 


ii8  SILAS  MARNER. 

"  God  rest  you,  merry  gentlemen, 
Let  nothing  you  dismay, 
For  Jesus  Christ  our  Saviour 
Was  born  on  Christmas-day." 

Dolly  listened  with  a  devout  look,  glancing  at 
Marner  in  some  confidence  that  this  strain  would 
help  to  allure  him  to  church. 

"  That 's  Christmas  music,"  she  said,  when  Aaron 
had  ended,  and  had  secured  his  piece  of  cake  again. 
"  There 's  no  other  music  equil  to  the  Christmas 
music,  —  '  Hark  the  erol  angils  sing.'  And  you 
may  judge  what  it  is  at  church,  Master  Marner, 
with  the  bassoon  and  the  voices,  as  you  can't  help 
thinking  you  've  got  to  a  better  place  a'ready,  —  for 
I  would  n't  speak  ill  o'  this  world,  seeing  as  Them 
put  us  in  it  as  knows  best,  —  but  what  wi'  the  drink, 
and  the  quarrelling,  and  the  bad  illnesses,  and  the 
hard  dying,  as  I  've  seen  times  and  times,  one 's 
thankful  to  hear  of  a  better.  The  boy  sings  pretty, 
don't  he,  Master  Marner  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Silas,  absently,  "  very  pretty." 

The  Christmas  carol,  with  its  hammer-like 
rhythm,  had  fallen  on  his  ears  as  strange  music, 
quite  unlike  a  hymn,  and  could  have  none  of  the 
effect  Dolly  contemplated.  But  he  wanted  to  show 
her  that  he  was  grateful,  and  the  only  mode  that  oc- 
curred to  him  was  to  offer  Aaron  a  bit  more  cake. 

"  Oh,  no,  thank  you.  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly, 
holding  down  Aaron's  willing  hands.  "  We  must 
be  going  home  now.  And  so  I  wish  you  good-by, 
Master  Marner ;  and  if  you  ever  feel  anyways  bad 
in  your  inside,  as  you  can't  fend  for  yourself,  I  '11 
come  and  clean  up  for  you,  and  get  you  a  bit  o' 
victual,  and  willing.  But  I  beg  and  pray  of  you  to 
leave  off  weaving  of  a  Sunday,  for  it 's  bad  for  soul 


SILAS  MARNER.  119 

and  body,  —  and  the  money  as  comes  i'  that  way 
'ull  be  a  bad  bed  to  lie  down  on  at  the  last,  if  it 
doesn't  fly  away,  nobody  knows  where,  like  the 
white  frost.  And  you'll  excuse  me  being  that  free 
with  you,  Master  Marner,  for  I  wish  you  well,  —  I 
do.     Make  your  bow,  Aaron." 

Silas  said,  "Good-by,  and  thank  you  kindly," 
as  he  opened  the  door  for  Dolly,  but  he  could  n't 
help  feeling  relieved  when  she  was  gone,  —  relieved 
that  he  might  weave  again  and  moan  at  his  ease. 
Her  simple  view  of  life  and  its  comforts,  by  which 
she  had  tried  to  cheer  him,  was  only  like  a  report 
of  unknown  objects,  which  his  imagination  could 
not  fashion.  The  fountains  of  human  love  and  of 
faith  in  a  divine  love  had  not  yet  been  unlocked, 
and  his  soul  was  still  the  shrunken  rivulet,  with 
only  this  difference,  that  its  little  groove  of  sand 
was  blocked  up,  aud  it  wandered  confusedly  against 
dark  obstruction. 

And  so,  notwithstanding  the  honest  persuasions 
of  Mr.  Macey  and  Dolly  Winthrop,  Silas  spent  his 
Christmas-day  in  loneliness,  eating  his  meat  in  sad- 
ness of  heart,  though  the  meat  had  come  to  him  as 
a  neighbourly  present.  In  the  morning  he  looked 
out  on  the  black  frost  that  seemed  to  press  cruelly 
on  every  blade  of  grass,  while  the  half-icy  red  pool 
shivered  under  the  bitter  wind ;  but  towards  even- 
ing the  snow  began  to  fall,  and  curtained  from  him 
even  that  dreary  outlook,  shutting  him  close  up 
with  his  narrow  grief.  And  he  sat  in  his  robbed 
home  through  the  livelong  evening,  not  caring  to 
close  his  shutters  or  lock  his  door,  pressing  his 
head  between  his  hands  and  moaning,  till  the  cold 
grasped  him  and  told  him  that  his  fire  was  gray. 

Nobody  in  this  world  but  himself  knew  that  he 


I20  SILAS  MARNER. 

was  the  same  Silas  Marner  who  had  once  loved  his 
fellow  with  tender  love,  and  trusted  in  an  unseen 
goodness.  Even  to  himself  that  past  experience 
had  become  dim. 

But  in  Eaveloe  village  the  bells  rang  merrily, 
and  the  church  was  fuller  than  all  through  the 
rest  of  the  year,  with  red  faces  among  the  abundant 
dark-green  boughs,  —  faces  prepared  for  a  longer 
service  than  usual  by  an  odorous  breakfast  of  toast 
and  ale.  Those  green  boughs,  the  hymn  and  an- 
them never  heard  but  at  Christmas, — even  the 
Athanasian  Creed,  which  was  discriminated  from 
the  others  only  as  being  longer  and  of  exceptional 
virtue,  since  it  was  only  read  on  rare  occasions,  — 
brought  a  vague  exulting  sense,  for  which  the 
grown  men  could  as  little  have  found  words  as  the 
children,  that  something  great  and  mysterious  had 
been  done  for  them  in  heaven  above  and  in  earth 
below,  which  they  were  appropriating  by  their 
presence.  And  then  the  red  faces  made  their  way 
through  the  black  biting  frost  to  their  own  homes, 
feeling  themselves  free  for  the  rest  of  the  day  to 
eat,  drink,  and  be  merry,  and  using  that  Christian 
freedom  without  diffidence. 

At  Squire  Cass's  family  party  that  day  nobody 
mentioned  Dunstan,  —  nobody  was  sorry  for  his 
absence,  or  feared  it  would  be  too  long.  The  doctor 
and  his  wife,  uncle  and  aunt  Kimble,  were  there, 
and  the  annual  Christmas  talk  was  carried  through 
without  any  omissions,  rising  to  the  climax  of  Mr. 
Kimble's  experience  when  he  walked  the  London 
hospitals  thirty  years  back,  together  with  striking 
professional  anecdotes  then  gathered.  Whereupon 
cards  followed,  with  aunt  Kimble's  annual  failure  to 
follow  suit,  and  uncle  Kimble's  irascibility  concern- 


SILAS  MARNER.  121 

ing  the  odd  trick  which  was  rarely  explicable  to 
him,  when  it  was  not  on  his  side,  without  a  general 
visitation  of  tricks  to  see  that  they  were  formed  on 
sound  principles :  the  whole  being  accompanied  by 
a  strong  steaming  odour  of  spirits-and-water. 

But  the  party  on  Christmas-day,  being  a  strictly 
family  party,  was  not  the  pre-eminently  brilliant 
celebration  of  the  season  at  the  Eed  House.  It  was 
the  great  dance  on  New  Year's  Eve  that  made  the 
glory  of  Squire  Cass's  hospitality,  as  of  his  fore- 
fathers', time  out  of  mind.  This  was  the  occasion 
when  all  the  society  of  Raveloe  and  Tarley,  whether 
old  acquaintances  separated  by  long  rutty  dis- 
tances, or  cooled  acquaintances  separated  by  mis- 
understandings concerning  run-away  calves,  or 
acquaintances  founded  on  intermittent  condescen- 
sion, counted  on  meeting  and  on  comporting  them- 
selves with  mutual  appropriateness.  This  was  the 
occasion  on  which  fair  dames  who  came  on  pillions 
sent  their  bandboxes  before  them,  supplied  with 
more  than  their  evening  costume  ;  for  the  feast  was 
not  to  end  with  a  single  evening,  like  a  paltry  town 
entertainment,  where  the  whole  supply  of  eatables 
is  put  on  the  table  at  once,  and  bedding  is  scanty. 
The  Eed  House  was  provisioned  as  if  for  a  siege  : 
and  as  for  the  spare  feather-beds  ready  to  be  laid  on 
floors,  they  were  as  plentiful  as  might  naturally  be 
expected  in  a  family  that  had  killed  its  own  geese 
for  many  generations. 

Godfrey  Cass  was  looking  forward  to  this  New 
Year's  Eve  with  a  foolish  reckless  longing  that 
made  him  half  deaf  to  his  importunate  companion. 
Anxiety. 

"  Dunsey  will  be  coming  home  soon :  there  will 
be  a  great  blow-up,  and  how  will  you  bribe  his 
spite  to  silence  ? "     said  Anxiety. 


122  SILAS  MARNER. 

"  Oh,  he  won't  come  home  before  New  Year's 
Eve,  perhaps,"  said  Godfrey ;  "  and  I  shall  sit  by 
Nancy  then,  and  dance  with  her,  and  get  a  kind 
look  from  her  in  spite  of  herself." 

"  But  money  is  wanted  in  another  quarter,"  said 
Anxiety,  in  a  louder  voice,  "  and  how  will  you  get 
it  without  selling  your  mother's  diamond  pin  ? 
And  if  you  don't  get  it  .  .  .    " 

"Well,  but  something  may  happen  to  make 
things  easier.  At  any  rate,  there 's  one  pleasure 
for  me  close  at  hand :  Nancy  is  coming." 

"  Yes,  and  suppose  your  father  should  bring 
matters  to  a  pass  that  would  oblige  you  to  decline 
marrying  her  —  and  to  give  your  reasons  ? " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  and  don  't  worry  me.  I  can 
see  Nancy's  eyes,  just  as  they  will  look  at  me,  and 
feel  her  hand  in  mine  already." 

But  Anxiety  went  on,  though  in  noisy  Christmas 
company;  refusing  to  be  utterly  quieted  even  by 
much  drinking. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Some  women,  I  grant,  would  not  appear  to  advan- 
tage seated  on  a  pillion,  and  attired  in  a  drab  Joseph 
and  a  drab  beaver  bonnet,  with  a  crown  resembling 
a  small  stew-pan ;  for  a  garment  suggesting  a  coach- 
man's great-coat,  cut  out  under  an  exiguity  of  cloth 
that  would  only  allow  of  miniature  capes,  is  not  well 
adapted  to  conceal  deficiencies  of  contour,  nor  is 
drab  a  colour  that  will  throw  sallow  cheeks  into  Kvely 
contrast.  It  was  all  the  greater  triumph  to  Miss 
Nancy  Lammeter's  beauty  that  she  looked  thoroughly 
bewitching  in  that  costume,  as,  seated  on  the  pillion 
behind  her  tall,  erect  father,  she  held  one  arm  round 
him,  and  looked  down,  with  open-eyed  anxiety,  at 
the  treacherous  snow-covered  pools  and  puddles, 
which  sent  up  formidable  splashings  of  mud  under 
the  stamp  of  Dobbin's  foot.  A  painter  would, 
perhaps,  have  preferred  her  in  those  moments  when 
she  was  free  from  self-consciousness ;  but  certainly 
the  bloom  on  her  cheeks  was  at  its  highest  point  of 
contrast  with  the  surrounding  drab  when  she  arrived 
at  the  door  of  the  Red  House,  and  saw  Mr.  Grodfrey 
Cass  ready  to  lift  her  from  the  pillion.  She  wished 
her  sister  Priscilla  had  come  up  at  the  same  time 
behind  the  servant,  for  then  she  would  have  con- 
trived that  Mr.  Godfrey  should  have  lifted  off  Pris- 
cilla first,  and  in  the  mean  time  she  would  have 
persuaded  her  father  to  go  round  to  the  horse-block 
instead  of  alighting  at  the  door-steps.  It  was  very 
painful,  when  you  had  made  it  quite  clear  to  a  young 


124  SILAS  MARNER, 

man  that  you  were  determined  not  to  marry  him, 
however  much  he  might  wish  it,  that  he  would  still 
continue  to  pay  you  marked  attentions ;  besides,  why 
didn't  he  always  show  the  same  attentions,  if  he 
meant  them  sincerely,  instead  of  being  so  strange 
as  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass  was,  sometimes  behaving  as  if 
he  did  n't  want  to  speak  to  her,  and  taking  no 
notice  of  her  for  weeks  and  weeks,  and  then,  all  on 
a  sudden,  almost  making  love  again  ?  Moreover,  it 
was  quite  plain  he  had  no  real  love  for  her,  else  he 
would  not  let  people  have  that  to  say  of  him  which 
they  did  say.  Did  he  suppose  that  Miss  Nancy 
Lammeter  was  to  be  won  by  any  man,  squire  or 
no  squire,  who  led  a  bad  life  ?  That  was  not  what 
she  had  been  used  to  see  in  her  own  father,  who  was 
the  soberest  and  best  man  in  that  country-side,  only 
a  little  hot  and  hasty  now  and  then,  if  things  were 
not  done  to  the  minute. 

All  these  thoughts  rushed  through  Miss  Nancy's 
mind,  in  their  habitual  succession,  in  the  moments 
between  her  first  sight  of  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass  standing 
at  the  door  and  her  own  arrival  there.  Happily, 
the  Squire  came  out  too,  and  gave  a  loud  greeting 
to  her  father,  so  that  somehow  under  cover  of  this 
noise  she  seemed  to  find  concealment  for  her  confu- 
sion and  neglect  of  any  suitably  formal  behaviour, 
while  she  was  being  lifted  from  the  pillion  by  strong 
arms  which  seemed  to  find  her  ridiculously  small  and 
light.  And  there  was  the  best  reason  for  hastening 
into  the  house  at  once,  since  the  snow  was  beginning 
to  fall  again,  threatening  an  unpleasant  journey  for 
such  guests  as  were  still  on  the  road.  These  were 
a  small  minority  ;  for  already  the  afternoon  was 
beginning  to  decline,  and  there  would  not  be  too 
much  time  for  the  ladies  who  came  from  a  distance 


SILAS  MARNER.  125 

to  attire  themselves  in  readiness  for  the  early  tea 
which  was  to  inspirit  them  for  the  dance. 

There  was  a  biizz  of  voices  through  the  house,  as 
Miss  Nancy  entered,  mingled  with  the  scrape  of  a 
fiddle  preluding  in  the  kitchen ;  but  the  Lammeters 
were  guests  whose  arrival  had  evidently  been  thought 
of  so  much  that  it  had  been  watched  for  from  the 
windows,  for  Mrs.  Kimble,  who  did  the  honours  at 
the  Eed  House  on  these  great  occasions,  came  forward 
to  meet  Miss  Nancy  in  the  hall,  and  conduct  her 
upstairs.  Mrs.  Kimble  was  the  Squire's  sister,  as 
well  as  the  doctor's  wife,  —  a  double  dignity,  with 
which  her  diameter  was  in  direct  proportion  ;  so  that, 
a  journey  upstairs  being  rather  fatiguing  to  her, 
she  did  not  oppose  Miss  Nancy's  request  to  be  allowed 
to  find  her  way  alone  to  the  Blue  Room,  where  the 
Miss  Lammeters'  bandboxes  had  been  deposited  on 
their  arrival  in  the  morning. 

There  was  hardly  a  bedroom  in  the  house  where 
feminine  compliments  were  not  passing  and  fem- 
inine toilettes  going  forward,  in  various  stages,  in 
space  made  scanty  by  extra  beds  spread  upon  the 
floor;  and  Miss  Nancy,  as  she  entered  the  Blue 
Eoom,  had  to  make  her  little  formal  courtesy  to  a 
group  of  six.  On  the  one  hand,  there  were  ladies 
no  less  important  than  the  two  Miss  Gunns,  the 
wine-merchant's  daughters  from  Lytherly,  dressed 
in  the  height  of  fashion,  with  the  tightest  skirts 
and  the  shortest  waists,  and  gazed  at  by  Miss  Lad- 
brook  (of  the  Old  Pastures)  with  a  shyness  not 
unsustained  by  inward  criticism.  Partly,  Miss 
Ladbrook  felt  that  her  own  skirt  must  be  re- 
garded as  unduly  lax  by  the  Miss  Gunns,  and 
partly  that  it  was  a  pity  the  Miss  Gunns  did  not 
show  that  judgment  which  she  herself  would  show 


126  SILAS  MARNER. 

if  she  were  in  their  place,  by  stopping  a  little  on 
this  side  of  the  fashion.  On  the  other  hand,  Mrs. 
Ladbrook  was  standing  in  skull-cap  and  front,  with 
her  turban  in  her  hand,  courtesying  and  smiling 
blandly  and  saying,  "  After  you,  ma'am,"  to  another 
lady  in  similar  circumstances,  who  had  politely  of- 
fered the  precedence  at  the  looking-glass. 

But  Miss  Nancy  had  no  sooner  made  her  courtesy 
than  an  elderly  lady  came  forward,  whose  full  white 
muslin  kerchief,  and  mob-cap  round  her  curls  of 
smooth  gray  hair,  were  in  daring  contrast  with  the 
puffed  yellow  satins  and  top-knotted  caps  of  her 
neighbours.  She  approached  Miss  Nancy  with 
much  primness,  and  said,  with  a  slow,  treble 
suavity,  — 

"  Niece,  I  hope  I  see  you  well  in  health."  Miss 
Nancy  kissed  her  aunt's  cheek  dutifully,  and  an- 
swered, with  the  same  sort  of  amiable  primness, 
"  Quite  well,  I  thank  you,  aunt ;  and  I  hope  I  see 
you  the  same." 

"  Thank  you,  niece ;  I  keep  my  health  for  the 
present.     And  how  is  my  brother-in-law  ?  " 

These  dutiful  questions  and  answers  were  con- 
tinued until  it  was  ascertained  in  detail  that  the 
Lammeters  were  all  as  well  as  usual,  and  the  Os- 
goods  likewise,  also  that  niece  Priscilla  must  cer- 
tainly arrive  shortly,  and  that  travelling  on  pillions 
in  snowy  weather  was  unpleasant,  though  a  Joseph 
was  a  great  protection.  Then  Nancy  was  formally 
introduced  to  her  aunt's  visitors,  the  Miss  Gunns, 
as  being  the  daughters  of  a  mother  known  to  their 
mother,  though  now  for  the  first  time  induced  to 
make  a  journey  into  these  parts  ;  and  these  ladies 
were  so  taken  by  surprise  at  finding  such  a  lovely 
face  and  figure  in  an  out-of-the-way  country  place, 


SILAS  MARNER.  127 

that  they  began  to  feel  some  curiosity  about  the 
dress  she  would  put  on  when  she  took  off  her 
Joseph.  Miss  Xancy,  whose  thoughts  were  always 
conducted  with  the  propriety  and  moderation  con- 
spicuous in  her  manners,  remarked  to  herself  that 
the  Miss  Gunns  were  rather  hard-featured  than 
otherwise,  and  that  such  very  low  dresses  as  they 
wore  might  have  been  attributed  to  vanity  if  their 
shoulders  had  been  pretty,  but  that,  being  as  they 
were,  it  was  not  reasonable  to  suppose  that  they 
showed  their  necks  from  a  love  of  display,  but 
rather  from  some  obligation  not  inconsistent  with 
sense  and  modesty.  She  felt  convinced,  as  she 
opened  her  box,  that  this  must  be  her  aunt  Os- 
good's opinion,  for  Miss  Nancy's  mind  resembled 
her  aunt's  to  a  degree  that  eveiybody  said  was 
surprising,  considering  the  kinship  was  on  Mr. 
Osgood's  side ;  and  though  you  might  not  have 
supposed  it  from  the  formality  of  their  greeting, 
there  was  a  devoted  attachment  and  mutual 
admiration  between  aunt  and  niece.  Even  Miss 
Nancy's  refusal  of  her  cousin  Gilbert  Osgood  (on 
the  ground  solely  that  he  was  her  cousin),  though 
it  had  grieved  her  aunt  greatly,  had  not  in  the  least 
cooled  the  preference  which  had  determined  her  to 
leave  Nancy  several  of  her  hereditary  ornaments, 
let  Gilbert's  future  wife  be  whom  she  might. 

Three  of  the  ladies  quickly  retired,  but  the  Miss 
Gunns  were  quite  content  that  Mrs.  Osgood's 
inclination  to  remain  with  her  niece  gave  them 
also  a  reason  for  staying  to  see  the  rustic  beauty's 
toilette.  And  it  was  really  a  pleasure,  —  from  the 
first  opening  of  the  bandbox,  where  everything 
smelt  of  lavender  and  rose-leaves,  to  the  clasping 
of  the  small  coral  necklace  that  fitted  closely  round 


128  SILAS  MARNER. 

her  little  white  neck.  Everything  belonging  to 
Miss  Nancy  was  of  delicate  purity  and  nattiness : 
not  a  crease  was  where  it  had  no  business  to  be, 
not  a  bit  of  her  linen  professed  whiteness  without 
fulfilling  its  profession ;  the  very  pins  on  her  pin- 
cushion were  stuck  in  after  a  pattern  from  which 
she  was  careful  to  allow  no  aberration ;  and  as  for 
her  own  person,  it  gave  the  same  idea  of  perfect 
unvarying  neatness  as  the  body  of  a  little  bird. 
It  is  true  that  her  light-brown  hair  was  cropped 
behind  like  a  boy's,  and  was  dressed  in  front  in  a 
number  of  flat  rings,  that  lay  quite  away  from  her 
face;  but  there  was  no  sort  of  coiffure  that  could 
make  Miss  Nancy's  cheek  and  neck  look  otherwise 
than  pretty ;  and  when  at  last  she  stood  complete 
in  her  silvery  twilled  silk,  her  lace  tucker,  her  coral 
necklace,  and  coral  ear-drops,  the  Miss  Gunns  could 
see  nothing  to  criticise  except  her  hands,  which 
bore  the  traces  of  butter-making,  cheese-crushing, 
and  even  still  coarser  work.  But  Miss  Nancy  was 
not  ashamed  of  that,  for  while  she  was  dressing  she 
narrated  to  her  aunt  how  she  and  Priscilla  had 
packed  their  boxes  yesterday,  because  this  morn- 
ing was  baking  morning,  and  since  they  were  leav- 
ing home,  it  was  desirable  to  make  a  good  supply  of 
meat-pies  for  the  kitchen ;  and  as  she  concluded 
this  judicious  remark,  she  turned  to  the  Miss 
Gunns  that  she  might  not  commit  the  rudeness  of 
not  including  them  in  the  conversation.  The  ]\Iiss 
Gunns  smiled  stiffly,  and  thought  what  a  pity  it 
was  that  these  rich  country-people,  who  could  af- 
ford to  buy  such  good  clothes  (really  Miss  Nancy's 
lace  and  silk  were  very  costly),  should  be  brought 
up  in  utter  ignorance  and  vulgarity.  She  actu- 
ally said  "  mate  "  for  "  meat,"  "  appen  "  for  "  per- 


SILAS  MARNER.  129 

haps,"  and  "  oss "  for  "  horse,"  which,  to  young 
ladies  living  in  good  Lytherly  society,  who  habit- 
ually said  "  'orse,"  even  in  domestic  privacy,  and  only 
said  "  'appen"  on  the  right  occasions,  was  necessarily 
shocking.  Miss  Xancy,  indeed,  had  never  been  to 
any  school  higher  than  Dame  Tedman's:  her  ac- 
quaintance with  profane  literature  hardly  went 
beyond  the  rhymes  she  had  worked  in  her  large 
sampler  under  the  lamb  and  the  shepherdess ;  and 
in  order  to  balance  an  account,  she  was  obliged  to 
effect  her  subtraction  by  removing  visible  metallic 
shillings  and  sixpences  from  a  visible  metallic 
total.  There  is  hardly  a  servant-maid  in  these 
days  who  is  not  better  informed  than  Miss  Xancy ; 
yet  she  had  the  essential  attributes  of  a  lady,  — 
high  veracity,  delicate  honour  in  her  dealings,  def- 
erence to  others,  and  refined  personal  habits,  —  and 
lest  these  should  not  suffice  to  convince  grammati- 
cal fair  ones  that  her  feelings  can  at  all  resemble 
theirs,  I  will  add  that  she  was  slightly  proud  and 
exacting,  and  as  constant  in  her  affection  towards 
a  baseless  opinion  as  towards  an  erring  lover. 

The  anxiety  about  sister  Priscilla,  which  had 
grown  rather  active  by  the  time  the  coral  necklace 
was  clasped,  was  happily  ended  by  the  entrance  of 
that  cheerful-looking  lady  herself,  with  a  face  made 
blowsy  by  cold  and  damp.  After  the  first  questions 
and  greetings,  she  turned  to  Xancy,  and  surveyed 
her  from  head  to  foot ;  then  wheeled  her  round,  to 
ascertain  that  the  back  view  was  equally  faultless. 

"  What  do  you  think  o'  these  go\vns,  aunt  Osgood  ?  " 
said  Priscilla,  while  Xancy  helped  her  to  unrobe. 

"  Very  handsome  indeed,  niece,"  said  Mrs.  Os- 
good, with  a  slight  increase  of  formality.  She 
always  thought  niece  Priscilla  too  rough. 


130  SILAS  MARNER. 

"  I  'm  obliged  to  have  the  same  as  Nancy,  you 
know,  for  all  I  'm  five  years  older,  and  it  makes  me 
look  yallow ;  for  she  never  will  have  anything  with- 
out I  have  mine  just  like  it,  because  she  wants  us 
to  look  like  sisters.  And  I  tell  her,  folks  'ull  think 
it 's  my  weakness  makes  me  fancy  as  I  shall  look 
pretty  in  what  she  looks  pretty  in.  For  1  am  ugly, 
— there  's  no  denying  that :  I  feature  my  father's 
family.  But,  law !  I  don't  mind,  do  you  ? "  Pris- 
cilla  here  turned  to  the  Miss  Gunns,  rattling  on  in 
too  much  preoccupation  with  the  delight  of  talking, 
to  notice  that  her  candour  was  not  appreciated. 
"The  pretty  uns  do  for  fly-catchers,  —  they  keep 
the  men  off  us.  I  've  no  opinion  o'  the  men,  Miss 
Gunn,  —  I  don't  know  what  you  have.  And  as  for 
fretting  and  stewing  about  what  they'll  think  of 
you  from  morning  till  night,  and  making  your  life 
uneasy  about  what  they  're  doing  when  they  're  out 
o'  your  sight,  —  as  I  tell  Nancy,  it 's  a  folly  no 
woman  need  be  guilty  of,  if  she  's  got  a  good  father 
and  a  good  home :  let  her  leave  it  to  them  as  have 
got  no  fortin,  and  can't  help  themselves.  As  I  say, 
Mr.  Have-your-own-way  is  the  best  husband,  and 
the  only  one  I  'd  ever  promise  to  obey.  I  know  it 
is  n't  pleasant,  when  you  've  15een  used  to  living  in 
a  big  way,  and  managing  hogsheads  and  all  that,  to 
go  and  put  your  nose  in  by  somebody  else's  fireside, 
or  to  sit  down  by  yourself  to  a  scrag  or  a  knuckle ; 
but,  thank  God  I  my  father  's  a  sober  man  and 
likely  to  live ;  and  if  you  've  got  a  man  by  the 
chimney-corner,  it  does  n't  matter  if  he  's  childish 
—  the  business  need  n't  be  broke  up." 

The  delicate  process  of  getting  her  narrow  gown 
over  her  head  without  injury  to  her  smooth  curls 
obliged  Miss  Priscilla  to  pause  in  this  rapid  survey 


SILAS  MARNER.  131 

of  life,  and  Mrs.  Osgood  seized  the  opportunity  of 
rising  and  saying,  — 

"  Well,  niece,  you  '11  follow  us.  The  Miss  Gunns 
will  like  to  go  down." 

"  Sister,"  said  Nancy,  when  they  were  alone, 
"you've  offended  the  Miss  Gunns,  I'm  sure." 

"  What  have  I  done,  child  ? "  said  Priscilla,  in 
some  alarm. 

"  Why,  you  asked  them  if  they  minded  about 
being  ugly,  —  you  're  so  very  blunt." 

"  Law,  did  I  ?  Well,  it  popped  out :  it 's  a  mercy 
I  said  no  more,  for  I  'm  a  bad  un  to  live  with  folks 
when  they  don't  like  the  truth.  But  as  for  being 
ugly,  look  at  me,  child,  in  this  silver-coloured  silk, 
—  I  told  you  how  it  'ud  be,  —  I  look  as  yallow 
as  a  daffadil.  Anybody  'ud  say  you  wanted  to 
make  a  mawkin  of  me." 

"  No,  Priscy,  don't  say  so.  I  begged  and  prayed 
of  you  not  to  let  us  have  this  silk  if  you  'd  like 
another  better.  I  was  willing  to  have  your  choice, 
you  know  I  was,"  said  Nancy,  in  anxious  self- 
vindication. 

"Nonsense,  child!  you  know  you'd  set  your 
heart  on  this ;  and  reason  good,  for  you  're  the 
colour  o'  cream.  It  'ud  be  fine  doings  for  you 
to  dress  yourself  to  suit  my  skin.  What  I  find 
fault  with,  is  that  notion  o'  yours  as  I  must  dress 
myself  just  like  you.  But  you  do  as  you  like 
with  me,  —  you  always  did,  from  when  first  you 
begun  to  walk.  If  you  wanted  to  go  the  field's 
length,  the  field's  length  you  'd  go ;  and  there  was 
no  whipping  you,  for  you  looked  as  prim  and  inni- 
cent  as  a  daisy  all  the  while." 

"Priscy,"  said  Nancy,  gently,  as  she  fastened  a 
coral  necklace,  exactly  like  her  own,  round  Priscilla's 


132  SILAS  MARNER. 

neck,  which  was  very  far  from  being  like  her  own, 
"  I  'm  sure  I  'm  willing  to  give  way  as  far  as  is 
right,  but  who  should  n't  dress  alike  if  it  is  n't 
sisters  ?  Would  you  have  us  go  about  looking  as 
if  we  were  no  kin  to  one  another,  —  us  that  have 
got  no  mother  and  not  another  sister  in  the  world  ? 
I  'd  do  what  was  right,  if  I  dressed  in  a  gown  dyed 
with  cheese-colouring ;  and  I  'd  rather  you  'd  choose, 
and  let  me  wear  what  pleases  you." 

"  There  you  go  again !  You  'd  come  round  to 
the  same  thing  if  one  talked  to  you  from  Saturday 
night  till  Saturday  morning.  It  '11  be  fine  fun  to 
see  how  you  '11  master  your  husband  and  never 
raise  your  voice  above  the  singing  o'  the  kettle  all 
the  while.     I  like  to  see  the  men  mastered ! " 

"  Don 't  talk  so,  Priscy,"  said  Nancy,  blushing. 
"  You  know  I  don't  mean  ever  to  be   married." 

"Oh,  you  never  mean  a  fiddlestick's  end!"  said 
Priscilla,  as  she  arranged  her  discarded  dress,  and 
closed  her  bandbox.  "  Who  shall  I  have  to  work 
for  when  father 's  gone,  if  you  are  to  go  and  take 
notions  in  your  head  and  be  an  old  maid,  because 
some  folks  are  no  better  than  they  should  be  ?  I 
have  n't  a  bit  o'  patience  with  you,  —  sitting  on  an 
addled  egg  forever,  as  if  there  was  never  a  fresh 
un  in  the  world.  One  old  maid  's  enough  out  o' 
two  sisters ;  and  I  shall  do  credit  to  a  single  life, 
for  God  A'mighty  meant  me  for  it.  Come,  we  can 
go  down  now,  I  'm  as  ready  as  a  mawkin  ca?i 
be,  —  there 's  nothing  a-wanting  to  frighten  the 
crows,  now  I  've  got  my  ear-droppers  in." 

As  the  two  Miss  Lammeters  walked  into  the 
large  parlour  together,  any  one  who  did  not  know 
the  character  of  both  might  certainly  have  sup- 
posed that   the  reason  why  the  square-shouldered. 


SILAS  MARNER.  133 

clumsy,  high-featured  Priscilla  wore  a  dress  the 
facsimile  of  her  pretty  sister's,  was  either  the  mis- 
taken vanity  of  the  one,  or  the  malicious  contri- 
vance of  the  other  in  order  to  set  off  her  own  rare 
heauty.  But  the  good-natured,  self-forgetful  cheeri- 
ness  and  common-sense  of  Priscilla  would  soon 
have  dissipated  the  one  suspicion  ;  and  the  modest 
calm  of  Nancy's  speech  and  manners  told  clearly 
of  a  mind  free  from  all  disavowed  devices. 

Places  of  honour  had  been  kept  for  the  Miss 
Lammeters  near  the  head  of  the  principal  tea-table 
in  the  wainscoted  parlour,  now  looking  fresh  and 
pleasant  with  handsome  branches  of  holly,  yew, 
and  laurel,  from  the  abundant  growths  of  the  old 
garden;  and  Xancy  felt  an  inward  flutter,  that 
no  firmness  of  purpose  could  prevent,  when  she 
saw  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass  advancing  to  lead  her  to 
a  seat  between  himself  and  Mr.  Crackenthorp, 
while  Priscilla  was  called  to  the  opposite  side 
between  her  father  and  the  Squire.  It  certainly 
did  make  some  difference  to  Nancy  that  the  lover 
she  had  given  up  was  the  young  man  of  quite  the 
highest  consequence  in  the  parish,  —  at  home  in 
a  venerable  and  unique  parlour,  which  was  the 
extremity  of  grandeur  in  her  experience,  a  parlour 
where  she  might  one  day  have  been  mistress,  with 
the  consciousness  that  she  was  spoken  of  as  "  Madam 
Cass,"  the  Squire's  wife.  These  circumstances  ex- 
alted her  inward  drama  in  her  own  eyes,  and 
deepened  the  emphasis  with  which  she  declared 
to  herself  that  not  the  most  dazzling  rank  should 
induce  her  to  marry  a  man  whose  conduct  showed 
him  careless  of  his  character,  but  that "  love  once, 
love  always,"  was  the  motto  of  a  true  and  pure 
woman,  and  no  man  should  ever   have  any  right 


134  SILAS  MARNER. 

over  her  which  would  be  a  call  on  her  to  destroy 
the  dried  flowers  that  she  treasured,  and  always 
would  treasure,  for  Godfrey  Cass's  sake.  And 
Nancy  was  capable  of  keeping  her  word  to  her- 
self under  very  trying  conditions.  Nothing  but 
a  becoming  blush  betrayed  the  moving  thoughts 
that  urged  themselves  upon  her  as  she  accepted 
the  seat  next  to  Mr.  Crackenthorp ;  for  she  was 
so  instinctively  neat  and  adroit  in  all  her  actions, 
and  her  pretty  lips  met  each  other  with  such 
quiet  firmness,  that  it  would  have  been  difficult 
for  her  to  appear  agitated. 

It  was  not  the  Rector's  practice  to  let  a  charming 
blush  pass  without  an  appropriate  compliment, 
He  was  not  in  the  least  lofty  or  aristocratic,  but 
simply  a  merry-eyed,  small-featured,  gray-haired 
man,  with  his  chin  propped  by  an  ample  many- 
creased  white  neckcloth  which  seemed  to  predomi- 
nate over  every  other  point  in  his  person,  and 
somehow  to  impress  its  peculiar  character  on  his 
remarks ;  so  that  to  have  considered  his  amenities 
apart  from  his  cravat  would  have  been  a  severe, 
and  perhaps  a  dangerous,  effort  of  abstraction. 

"  Ha,  Miss  Nancy,"  he  said,  turning  his  head 
within  his  cravat  and  smiling  down  pleasantly 
upon  her,  "when  anybody  pretends  this  has  been 
a  severe  winter,  I  shall  tell  them  I  saw  the  roses 
blooming  on  New  Year's  Eve,  —  eh,  Godfrey,  what 
do  you  say  ?  " 

Godfrey  made  no  reply,  and  avoided  looking  at 
Nancy  very  markedly ;  for  though  these  compli- 
mentary personalities  were  held  to  be  in  excellent 
taste  in  old-fashioned  Raveloe  society,  reverent  love 
has  a  politeness  of  its  own  which  it  teaches  to  men 
otherwise  of  small  schooling.     But  the  Squire  was 


SILAS  MARNER.  135 

rather  impatient  at  Godfrey's  showing  himself  a 
dull  spark  in  this  way.  By  this  advanced  hour 
of  the  day,  the  Squire  was  always  in  higher 
spirits  than  we  have  seen  him  in  at  the  breakfast- 
table,  and  felt  it  quite  pleasant  to  fulfil  the  heredi- 
tary duty  of  being  noisily  jovial  and  patronizing : 
the  large  silver  snuff-box  was  in  active  service, 
and  was  offered  without  fail  to  all  neighbours  from 
time  to  time,  however  often  they  might  have  de- 
clined the  favour.  At  present,  the  Squire  had 
only  given  an  express  welcome  to  the  heads  of 
families  as  they  appeared ;  but  always,  as  the 
evening  deepened,  his  hospitality  rayed  out  more 
widely,  till  he  had  tapped  the  youngest  guests  on 
the  back  and  shown  a  peculiar  fondness  for  their 
presence,  in  the  full  belief  that  they  must  feel 
their  lives  made  happy  by  their  belonging  to  a 
parish  where  there  was  such  a  hearty  man  as 
Squire  Cass  to  invite  them  and  wish  them  well. 
Even  in  this  early  stage  of  the  jovial  mood,  it  was 
natural  that  he  should  wish  to  supply  his  son's 
deficiencies  by  looking  and  speaking  for  him. 

"Ay,  ay,"  he  began,  offering  his  snuff-box  to 
Mr.  Lammeter,  who  for  the  second  time  bowed  his 
head  and  waved  his  hand  in  stiff  rejection  of  the 
offer,  "  us  old  fellows  may  wish  ourselves  young 
to-night,  when  we  see  the  mistletoe-bough  in  the 
White  Parlour.  It 's  true,  most  things  are  gone 
back'ard  in  these  last  thirty  years,  —  the  country  's 
going  down  since  the  old  king  fell  ill.  But  when 
I  look  at  Miss  Nancy  here,  I  begin  to  think  the 
lasses  keep  up  their  quality ;  —  ding  me  if  I  re- 
member a  sample  to  match  her,  not  when  I  was  a 
fine  young  fellow,  and  thought  a  deal  about  my 
pig-tail.     No   offence  to   you,   madam,"   he   added, 


136  SILAS  MARNER. 

bending  to  Mrs.  Crackenthorp,  who  sat  by  him, 
"  I  did  n't  know  you  when  you  were  as  young  as 
Miss  Nancy  here." 

Mrs.  Crackenthorp  —  a  small  blinking  woman, 
who  fidgeted  incessantly  with  her  lace,  ribbons, 
and  gold  chain,  turning  her  head  about  and  making 
subdued  noises,  very  much  like  a  guinea-pig  that 
twitches  its  nose  and  soliloquizes  in  all  company 
indiscriminately  —  now  blinked  and  fidgeted  to- 
wards the  Squire,  and  said,  "  Oh  no,  —  no  offence." 

This  emphatic  compliment  of  the  Squire's  to 
Nancy  was  felt  by  others  besides  Godfrey  to  have 
a  diplomatic  significance ;  and  her  father  gave  a 
slight  additional  er§ctness  to  his  back,  as  he  looked 
across  the  table  at  her  with  complacent  gravity. 
That  grave  and  orderly  senior  was  not  going  to  bate 
a  jot  of  his  dignity  by  seeming  elated  at  the  notion 
of  a  match  between  his  family  and  the  Squire's  :  he 
was  gratified  by  any  honour  paid  to  his  daughter ; 
but  he  must  see  an  alteration  in  several  ways  be- 
fore his  consent  would  be  vouchsafed.  His  spare 
but  healthy  person,  and  high-featured  firm  face, 
that  looked  as  if  it  had  never  been  flushed  by  ex- 
cess, was  in  strong  contrast,  not  only  with  the 
Squire's,  but  with  the  appearance  of  the  Eaveloe 
farmers  generally,  —  in  accordance  with  a  favourite 
saying  of  his  own,  that  "  breed  was  stronger  than 
pasture." 

"  Miss  Nancy 's  wonderful  like  what  her  mother 
was,  though;  isn't  she,  Kimble?"  said  the  stout 
lady  of  that  name,  looking  round  for  her  husband. 

But  Dr.  Kimble  (country  apothecaries  in  old 
days  enjoyed  that  title  without  authority  of  di- 
ploma), being  a  thin  and  agile  man,  was  flitting 
about  the  room  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  mak- 


SILAS  MARNER.  137 

ing  himself  agreeable  to  his  feminine  patients,  with 
medical  impartiality,  and  being  welcomed  every- 
where as  a  doctor  by  hereditary  right,  —  not  one  of 
those  miserable  apothecaries  who  canvass  for  prac- 
tice in  strange  neighbourhoods,  and  spend  all  their 
income  in  starving  their  one  horse,  but  a  man  of 
substance,  able  to  keep  an  extravagant  table  like 
the  best  of  his  patients.  Time  out  of  mind  the 
Eaveloe  doctor  had  been  a  Kimble;  Kimble  was 
inherently  a  doctor's  name ;  and  it  was  difficult  to 
contemplate  firmly  the  melancholy  fact  that  the 
actual  Kimble  had  no  son,  so  that  his  practice  might 
one  day  be  handed  over  to  a  successor  with  the 
incongruous  name  of  Taylor  or  Johnson.  But  in 
that  case  the  wiser  people  in  Eaveloe  would  employ 
Dr.  Blick  of  Flitton,  —  as  less  unnatural. 

"  Did  you  speak  to  me,  my  dear  ? "  said  the 
authentic  doctor,  coming  quickly  to  his  wife's  side ; 
but,  as  if  foreseeing  that  she  would  be  too  much 
out  of  breath  to  repeat  her  remark,  he  went  on  im- 
mediately: "Ha,  Miss  Priscilla,  the  sight  of  you 
revives  the  taste  of  that  super-excellent  pork-pie. 
I  hope  the  batch  is  n't  near  an  end." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  it  is,  doctor,"  said  Priscilla ;  "  but 
I  '11  answer  for  it  the  next  shall  be  as  good.  My 
pork-pies  don't  turn  out  well  by  chance." 

"  Not  as  your  doctoring  does,  eh,  Kimble  ?  — 
because  folks  forget  to  take  your  physic,  eh  ? "  said 
the  Squire,  who  regarded  physic  and  doctors  as 
many  loyal  churchmen  regard  the  church  and  the 
clergy,  —  tasting  a  joke  against  them  when  he  wa^  in 
health,  but  impatiently  eager  for  their  aid  when 
anything  was  the  matter  with  him."  He  tapped  his 
box,  and  looked  round  with  a  triumphant  laugh. 

"Ah,  she  has  a  quick  wit,  my  friend   Priscilla 


138  SILAS  MARNER. 

has,"  said  the  doctor,  choosing  to  attribute  the 
epigram  to  a  lady  rather  than  allow  a  brother-in- 
law  that  advantage  over  him.  "  She  saves  a  little 
pepper  to  sprinkle  over  her  talk,  —  that 's  the 
reason  why  she  never  puts  too  much  into  her  pies. 
There  's  my  wife,  now,  she  never  has  an  answer  at 
her  tongue's  end ;  but  if  I  offend  her,  she  's  sure  to 
scarify  my  throat  with  black  pepper  the  next  day, 
or  else  give  me  the  colic  with  watery  greens. 
That's  an  awful  tit-for-tat."  Here  the  vivacious 
doctor  made  a  pathetic  grimace. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  ? "  said  Mrs.  Kimble, 
laughing  above  her  double  chin  with  much  good- 
humour,  aside  to  Mrs.  Crackenthorp,  who  blinked 
and  nodded,  and  amiably  intended  to  smile,  but 
the  intention  lost  itself  in  small  twitchings  and 
noises. 

"  I  suppose  that 's  the  sort  of  tit-for-tat  adopted 
in  your  profession,  Kimble,  if  you've  a  grudge 
against  a  patient,"  said  the  Eector. 

"  Never  do  have  a  grudge  against  our  patients," 
said  Mr.  Kimble,  "  except  when  they  leave  us ;  and 
then,  you  see,  we  have  n't  the  chance  of  prescribing 
for  'em.  Ha,  Miss  Nancy,"  he  continued,  suddenly 
skipping  to  Nancy's  side,  "you  won't  forget  your 
promise  ?    You  're  to  save  a  dance  for  me,  you  know." 

'•'  Come,  come,  Kimble,  don't  you  be  too  for'ard," 
said  the  Squire.  "Give  the  young  uns  fair-play. 
There's  my  son  Godfrey '11  be  wanting  to  have  a 
round  with  you  if  you  run  off  with  Miss  Nancy. 
He^'s  bespoke  her  for  the  first  dance,  I  '11  be  bound. 
Eh,  sir !  what  do  you  say  ? "  he  continued,  throw- 
ing himself  backward,  and  looking  at  Godfrey. 
"  Have  n't  you  asked  Miss  Nancy  to  open  the  dance 
with  you?" 


SILAS  MARNER.  139 

Godfrey,  sorely  uncomfortable  under  tins  signifi- 
cant insistence  about  Nancy,  and  afraid  to  think 
where  it  would  end  by  the  time  his  father  had  set 
his  usual  hospitable  example  of  drinking  before 
and  after  supper,  saw  no  course  open  but  to  turn 
to  Nancy  and  say,  with  as  little  awkwardness  as 
possible,  — 

"  No ;  I  've  not  asked  her  yet,  but  I  hope  she  11  con- 
sent, —  if  somebody  else  has  n't  been  before  me." 

"No,  I've  not  engaged  myself,"  said  Nancy, 
quietly,  though  blushingly.  (If  Mr.  Godfrey 
founded  any  hopes  on  her  consenting  to  dance 
with  him,  he  would  soon  be  undeceived ;  but  there 
was  no  need  for  her  to  be  uncivil.) 

"  Then  I  hope  you  've  no  objections  to  dancing 
with  me,"  said  Godfrey,  beginning  to  lose  the  sense 
that  there  was  anything  uncomfortable  in  this 
arrangement. 

"  No,  no  objections,"  said  Nancy,  in  a  cold  tone. 

"  Ah,  well,  you  're  a  lucky  fellow,  Godfrey,"  said 
uncle  Kimble;  "but  you're  my  godson,  so  I  won't 
stand  in  your  way.  Else  I  'm  not  so  very  old,  eh, 
my  dear  ? "  he  went  on,  skipping  to  his  wife's  side 
again.  "You  wouldn't  mind  my  having  a  second 
after  you  were  gone,  —  not  if  I  cried  a  good  deal 
first  ? " 

"  Come,  come,  take  a  cup  0'  tea  and  stop  your 
tongue,  do,"  said  good-humoured  Mrs.  Kimble,  feel- 
ing some  pride  in  a  husband  who  must  be  regarded 
as  so  clever  and  amusing  by  the  company  generally. 
If  he  had  only  not  been  irritable  at  cards ! 

While  safe,  well-tested  personalities  were  enliven- 
ing the  tea  in  this  way,  the  sound  of  the  fiddle 
approaching  within  a  distance  at  which  it  could  be 
heard   distinctly,  made  the  young  people   look   at 


T40  SILAS  MARNER. 

each  other  with  sympathetic  impatience  for  the 
end  of  the  meal. 

"  Why,  there 's  Solomon  in  the  hall,"  said  the 
Squire,  "  and  playing  my  f av'rite  tune,  /  believe,  — 
'  The  flaxen-headed  ploughboy,'  —  he  's  for  giving 
us  a  hint  as  we  are  n't  enough  in  a  hurry  to  hear 
him  play.  Bob,"  he  called  out  to  his  third  long- 
legged  son,  who  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  room, 
"  open  the  door,  and  tell  Solomon  to  come  in.  He 
shall  give  us  a  tune  here." 

Bob  obeyed,  and  Solomon  walked  in,  fiddling  as 
he  walked,  for  he  would  on  no  account  break  off 
in  the  middle  of  a  tune. 

"  Here,  Solomon,"  said  the  Squire,  with  loud  pat- 
ronage. "  Round  here,  my  man.  Ah,  I  knew  it 
was  '  The  flaxen-headed  ploughboy ' :  there 's  no 
finer  tune." 

Solomon  Macey,  a  small  hale  old  man,  with  an 
abundant  crop  of  long  white  hair  reaching  nearly  to 
his  shoulders,  advanced  to  the  indicated  spot,  bow- 
ing reverently  while  he  fiddled,  as  much  as  to  say 
that  he  respected  the  company  though  he  respected 
the  key-note  more.  As  soon  as  he  had  repeated  the 
tune  and  lowered  his  fiddle,  he  bowed  again  to 
the  Squire  and  the  Rector,  and  said,  "  I  hope  I  see 
your  honour  and  your  reverence  well,  and  wishing 
you  health  and  long  life  and  a  happy  New  Year. 
And  wishing  the  same  to  you,  Mr.  Lammeter,  sir ; 
and  to  the  other  gentlemen,  and  the  madams,  and 
the  young  lasses." 

As  Solomon  uttered  the  last  words,  he  bowed  in 
all  directions  solicitously,  lest  he  should  be  wanting 
in  due  respect.  But  thereupon  he  immediately 
began  to  prelude,  and  fell  into  the  tune  which  he 
knew  would  be  taken  as  a  special  compliment  by 
Mr.  Lammeter. 


SILAS  MARNER.  141 

"Thank  ye,  Solomon,  thank  ye,"  said  Mr.  Lam- 
meter  when  the  ^ddle  paused  agam.  "  That 's  '  Over 
the  hills  and  far  away,'  that  is.  My  father  used  to 
say  to  me,  whenever  we  heard  that  tune,  '  Ah,  lad, 
/  come  from  over  the  hills  and  far  away.'  There 's 
a  many  tunes  I  don't  make  head  or  tail  of  ;  but  that 
speaks  to  me  like  the  blackbird's  whistle.  I  sup- 
pose it 's  the  name :  there  's  a  deal  in  the  name  of 
a  tune." 

But  Solomon  was  already  impatient  to  prelude 
again,  and  presently  broke  with  much  spirit  into 
"  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,"  at  which  there  was  a  sound 
of  chairs  pushed  back,  and  laughing  voices. 

"Ay,  ay,  Solomon,  we  know  what  that  means," 
said  the  Squire,  rising.  "  It 's  time  to  begin  the 
dance,  eh  ?  Lead  the  way,  then,  and  we  '11  all  follow 
you." 

So  Solomon,  holding  his  white  head  on  one  side, 
and  playing  vigorously,  marched  forward  at  the 
head  of  the  gay  procession  into  the  White  Parlour, 
where  the  mistletoe-bough  was  hung,  and  multitu- 
dinous tallow  candles  made  rather  a  brilliant  effect, 
gleaming  from  among  the  berried  holly-boughs,  and 
reflected  in  the  old-fashioned  oval  mirrors  fastened 
in  the  panels  of  the  white  wainscot.  A  quaint  pro- 
cession !  Old  Solomon,  in  his  seedy  clothes  and 
long  white  locks,  seemed  to  be  luring  that  decent 
company  by  the  magic  scream  of  his  fiddle,  —  luring 
discreet  matrons  in  turban-shaped  caps,  nay,  Mrs. 
Crackenthorp  herself,  the  summit  of  whose  perpen- 
dicular feather  was  on  a  level  with  the  Squire's 
shoulder,  — luring  fair  lasses  complacently  conscious 
of  very  short  waists  and  skirts  blameless  of  front- 
folds,  —  luring  burly  fathers  in  large  variegated 
waistcoats,  and  ruddy  sons,  for  the  most  part  shy 


142  SILAS  MARNER. 

and   sheepish,  in  short  nether  garments  and  very 
long  coat-tails. 

Already  Mr.  Macey  and  a  few  other  privileged 
villagers,  who  were  allowed  to  be  spectators  on 
these  great  occasions,  were  seated  on  benches  placed 
for  them  near  the  door ;  and  great  was  the  admi- 
ration and  satisfaction  in  that  quarter  when  the 
couples  had  formed  themselves  for  the  dance,  and 
the  Squire  led  off  with  Mrs.  Crackenthorp,  joining 
hands  with  the  Eector  and  Mrs.  Osgood.  That  was 
as  it  should  be,  —  that  was  what  everybody  had 
been  used  to,  —  and  the  charter  of  Eaveloe  seemed 
to  be  renewed  by  the  ceremony.  It  was  not  thought 
of  as  an  unbecoming  levity  for  the  old  and  middle- 
aged  people  to  dance  a  little  before  sitting  down  to 
cards,  but  rather  as  part  of  their  social  duties.  For 
what  were  these  if  not  to  be  merry  at  appropriate 
times,  interchanging  visits  and  poultry  with  due 
frequency,  paying  each  other  old-established  com- 
pliments in  sound  traditional  phrases,  passing  well- 
tried  personal  jokes,  urging  your  guests  to  eat  and 
drink  too  much  out  of  hospitality,  and  eating  and 
drinking  too  much  in  your  neighbour's  house  to  show 
that  you  liked  your  cheer  ?  And  the  parson  nat- 
urally set  an  example  in  these  social  duties.  For  it 
would  not  have  been  possible  for  the  Eaveloe  mind, 
without  a  peculiar  revelation,  to  know  that  a  clergy- 
man should  be  a  pale-faced  memento  of  solemnities, 
instead  of  a  reasonably  faulty  man  whose  exclusive 
authority  to  read  prayers  and  preach,  to  christen, 
marry,  and  bury  you,  necessarily  co-existed  with 
the  right  to  sell  you  the  ground  to  be  buried  in  and 
to  take  tithe  in  kind ;  on  which  last  point,  of  course, 
there  was  a  little  grumbling,  but  not  to  the  extent 
of  irreligion,  —  not  of  deeper  significance  than  the 


SILAS  MARNER.  143 

grumbling  at  the  rain,  which  was  by  no  means 
accompanied  with  a  spirit  of  impious  defiance,  but 
with  a  desire  that  the  prayer  for  fine  weather  might 
be  read  forthwith. 

There  was  no  reason,  then,  why  the  Eector's 
dancing  should  not  be  received  as  part  of  the  fitness 
of  things  quite  as  much  as  the  Squire's,  or  why,  on 
the  other  hand,  Mr.  Macey's  official  respect  should 
restrain  him  from  subjecting  the  parson's  perform- 
ance to  that  criticism  with  which  minds  of  extraor- 
dinary acuteness  must  necessarily  contemplate  the 
doings  of  their  fallible  fellow-men. 

"  The  Squire 's  pretty  springe,  considering  his 
weight,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  "  and  he  stamps  uncom- 
mon well.  But  Mr.  Lammeter  beats  'em  all  for 
shapes  :  you  see  he  holds  his  head  like  a  sodger,  and 
he  is  n't  so  cusliiony  as  most  o'  the  oldish  gentle- 
folks, —  they  run  fat  in  general ;  and  he  's  got  a 
fine  leg.  The  parson 's  nimble  enough,  but  he  has  n't 
got  much  of  a  leg :  it 's  a  bit  too  thick  down'ard, 
and  his  knees  might  be  a  bit  nearer  wi'out  damage  ; 
but  he  might  do  worse,  he  might  do  worse.  Though 
he  has  n't  that  grand  way  o'  waving  his  hand  as  the 
Squire  has." 

"  Talk  o'  nimbleness,  look  at  Mrs.  Osgood,"  said 
Ben  Winthrop,  who  was  holding  his  son  Aaron  be- 
tween his  knees.  "  She  trips  along  with  her  little 
steps,  so  as  nobody  can  see  how  she  goes,  —  it 's  like 
as  if  she  had  little  wheels  to  her  feet.  She  does  n't 
look  a  day  older  nor  last  year  :  she 's  the  finest-made 
woman  as  is,  let  the  next  be  where  she  will." 

"I  don't  heed  how  the  women  are  made,"  said 
Mr.  Macey,  with  some  contempt.  "  They  wear  nay- 
ther  coat  nor  breeches  :  you  can't  make  much  out  o' 
their  shapes." 


144  SILAS  MARNER. 

"  Fayder,"  said  Aaron,  whose  feet  were  busy  beat- 
ing out  the  tune,  "how  does  that  big  cock's-feather 
stick  in  Mrs.  Crackenthorp's  yead  ?  Is  there  a  little 
hole  for  it,  like  in  my  shuttle-cock  ?  " 

"  Hush,  lad,  hush  ;  that 's  the  way  the  ladies  dress 
theirselves,  that  is,"  said  the  father,  adding,  however, 
in  an  undertone  to  Mr.  Macey :  "  It  does  make  her 
look  funny,  though,  —  partly  like  a  short-necked 
bottle  wi'  a  long  quill  in  it.  Hey,  by  jingo,  there  's 
the  young  Squire  leading  off  now,  wi'  Miss  Nancy 
for  partners!  There's  a  lass  for  you!  —  like  a 
pink-and- white  posy,  —  there  's  nobody  'ud  think 
as  anybody  could  be  so  pritty.  I  should  n  't  won- 
der if  she 's  Madam  Cass  some  day,  arter  all,  —  and 
nobody  more  rightfuller,  for  they  'd  make  a  fine 
match.  You  can  find  nothing  against  Master  God- 
frey's shapes,  Macey,  7 '11  bet  a  penny." 

Mr.  Macey  screwed  up  his  mouth,  leaned  his  head 
further  on  one  side,  and  twirled  his  thumbs  with  a 
presto  movement  as  his  eyes  followed  Godfrey  up 
the  dance.     At  last  he  summed  up  his  opinion. 

"  Pretty  well  down'ard,  but  a  bit  too  round  i'  the 
shoulder-blades.  And  as  for  them  coats  as  he  gets 
from  the  Flitton  tailor,  they  're  a  poor  cut  to  pay 
double  money  for." 

"Ah,  Mr.  Macey,  you  and  me  are  two  folks,"  said 
Ben,  slightly  indignant  at  this  carping.  "When 
I  've  got  a  pot  o'  good  ale,  I  like  to  swaller  it,  and  do 
my  inside  good,  i'stead  o'  smelling  and  staring  at  it 
to  see  if  I  can't  find  faut  wi'  the  brewing.  I  should 
like  you  to  pick  me  out  a  finer-limbed  young  fellow 
nor  Master  Godfrey,  —  one  as  'ud  knock  you  down 
easier,  or 's  more  pleasanter  looksed  when  he 's  piert 
and  merry." 

"  Tchuh ! "  said  Mr.  Macey,  provoked  to  increased 


SILAS  MARNER.  145 

severity,  "  he  is  n't  come  to  his  right  colour  yet  :■  he  's 
partly  like  a  slack-baked  pie.  And  I  doubt  he 's  got 
a  soft  place  in  his  head,  else  why  should  he  be  turned 
round  the  finger  by  that  offal  Dunsey  as  nobody  's 
seen  0'  late,  and  let  him  kill  that  fine  hunting  boss 
as  was  the  talk  o'  the  country  ?  And  one  while  he 
was  allays  after  Miss  Nancy,  and  then  it  all  went 
off  again,  like  a  smell  0'  hot  porridge,  as  I  may  say. 
That  was  n't  my  way  when  /  went  a-coorting." 

"  Ah,  but  mayhap  Miss  Nancy  hung  off  like,  and 
your  lass  did  n't,"  said  Ben. 

"  I  should  say  she  did  n't,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  signifi- 
cantly. "  Before  I  said  '  sniff,'  I  took  care  to  know 
as  she  'd  say  '  snaff,'  and  pretty  quick  too.  I  was  n't 
a-going  to  open  my  mouth,  like  a  dog  at  a  fly,  and 
snap  it  to  again,  wi'  nothing  to  swaller." 

"  Well,  I  tliink  Miss  Nancy 's  a-coming  round 
again,"  said  Ben,  "  for  Master  Godfrey  does  n't  look 
so  down-hearted  to-night.  And  I  see  he 's  for  taking 
her  away  to  sit  down,  now  they  're  at  the  end  o'  the 
dance :  that  looks  like  sweethearting,  that  does." 

The  reason  why  Godfrey  and  Nancy  had  left  the 
dance  was  not  so  tender  as  Ben  imagined.  In  the 
close  press  of  couples  a  slight  accident  had  happened 
to  Nancy's  dress,  which,  while  it  was  short  enough 
to  show  her  neat  ankle  in  front,  was  long  enough 
behind  to  be  caught  under  the  stately  stamp  of  the 
Squire's  foot,  so  as  to  rend  certain  stitches  at  the 
waist,  and  cause  much  sisterly  agitation  in  Priscilla's 
mind,  as  well  as  serious  concern  in  Nancy's.  One's 
thoughts  may  be  much  occupied  with  love-struggles, 
but  hardly  t;o  as  to  be  insensible  to  a  disorder  in  the 
general  framework  of  things.  Nancy  had  no  sooner 
completed  her  duty  in  the  figure  they  were  dancing 
than  she  said  to  Godfrey,  with  a  deep  blush,  that 


146  SILAS  MARNER. 

she  must  go  and  sit  down  till  Priscilla  could  come 
to  her ;  for  the  sisters  had  already  exchanged  a  short 
whisper  and  an  open-eyed  glance  full  of  meaning. 
No  reason  less  urgent  than  this  could  have  prevailed 
on  Nancy  to  give  Godfrey  this  opportunity  of  sitting 
apart  with  her.  As  for  Godfrey,  he  was  feeling  so 
happy  and  oblivious  under  the  long  charm  of  the 
country-dance  with  Nancy,  that  he  got  rather  bold 
on  the  strength  of  her  confusion,  and  was  capable 
of  leading  her  straight  away,  without  leave  asked, 
into  the  adjoining  small  parlour,  where  the  card- 
tables  were  set. 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you,"  said  Nancy,  coldly,  as  soon 
as  she  perceived  where  he  was  going,  "  not  in  there. 
I  '11  wait  here  till  Priscilla 's  ready  to  come  to  me. 
I  'm  sorry  to  bring  you  out  of  the  dance  and  make 
myself  troublesome." 

"  Why,  you  '11  be  more  comfortable  here  by  your- 
self," said  the  artful  Godfrey  :  "  I  '11  leave  you  here 
till  your  sister  can  come."  He  spoke  in  an  indif- 
ferent tone. 

That  was  an  agreeable  proposition,  and  just  what 
Nancy  desired ;  why,  then,  was  she  a  little  hurt 
that  Mr.  Godfrey  should  make  it  ?  They  entered, 
and  she  seated  herself  on  a  chair  against  one  of  the 
card-tables,  as  the  stiffest  and  most  unapproachable 
position  she  could  choose. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  she  said  immediately.  "  I 
need  n't  give  you  any  more  trouble.  I  'm  sorry 
you  've  had  such  an  unlucky  partner." 

"That's  very  ill-natured  of  you,"  said  Godfrey, 
standing  by  her  without  any  sign  of  intended  de- 
parture, "  to  be  sorry  you  've  danced  with  me." 

"  Oh  no,  sir,  I  don't  mean  to  say  what 's  ill- 
natured   at  all,"  said   Nancy,  looking  distractingly 


SILAS  MARNER.  147 

prim  and  pretty.  "  When  gentlemen  have  so  many- 
pleasures,  one  dance  can  matter  but  very  little." 

"  You  know  that  is  n't  true.  You  know  one 
dance  with  you  matters  more  to  me  than  all  the 
other  pleasures  in  the  world." 

It  was  a  long,  long  while  since  Godfrey  had  said 
anything  so  direct  as  that,  and  Nancy  was  startled. 
But  her  instinctive  dignity  and  repugnance  to  any 
show  of  emotion  made  her  sit  perfectly  still,  and 
only  throw  a  little  more  decision  into  her  voice, 
as  she  said, — 

"  No,  indeed,  Mr.  Godfrey,  that 's  not  known  to 
me,  and  I  have  very  good  reasons  for  thinking 
different.     But  if  it 's  true,  I  don't  wish  to  hear  it." 

"Would  you  never  forgive  me,  then,  Nancy, — 
never  think  well  of  me,  let  what  would  happen,  — 
would  you  never  think  the  present  made  amends 
for  the  past  ?  Not  if  I  turned  a  good  fellow,  and 
gave  up  everything  you  did  n't  like  ? " 

Godfrey  was  half  conscious  that  this  sudden 
opportunity  of  speaking  to  Nancy  alone  had  driven 
him  beside  himself ;  but  blind  feeling  had  got  the 
mastery  of  his  tongue.  Nancy  really  felt  much 
agitated  by  the  possibility  Godfrey's  words  sug- 
gested, but  this  very  pressure  of  emotion  that 
she  was  in  danger  of  finding  too  strong  for  her 
roused  all  her  power  of  self-command. 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  see  a  good  change  in  any- 
body, Mr.  Godfrey,"  she  answered,  with  the  slight- 
est discernible  difference  of  tone,  "  but  it  'ud  be 
better  if  no  change  was  wanted." 

"  You  're  very  hard-hearted,  Nancy,"  said  Godfrey, 
pettishly.  "  Yon  might  encourage  me  to  be  a  better 
fellow.  I  'm  very  miserable,  —  but  you  've  no 
feeling." 


148  SILAS  MARNER. 

"  I  think  those  have  the  least  feeling  that  act 
wrong  to  begin  with,"  said  Nancy,  sending  out  a 
flash  in  spite  of  herself.  Godfrey  was  delighted 
with  that  little  flash,  and  would  have  liked  to  go 
on  and  make  her  quarrel  with  him  ;  Nancy  was  so 
exasperatingly  quiet  and  firm.  But  she  was  not 
indifferent  to  him  yet. 

The  entrance  of  Priscilla,  bustling  forward  and 
saying,  "Dear  heart  alive,  child,  let  us  look  at 
this  gown,"  cut  off  Godfrey's  hopes  of  a  quarrel. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  go  now,"  he  said  to  Priscilla. 

"  It 's  no  matter  to  me  whether  you  go  or  stay," 
said  that  frank  lady,  searching  for  something  in 
her  pocket,  with  a  preoccupied  brow. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  go  ? "  said  Godfrey,  looking 
at  Nancy,  who  was  now  standing  up  by  Priscillas 
order. 

"  As  you  like,"  said  Nancy,  trying  to  recover  all 
her  former  coldness,  and  looking  down  carefully  at 
the.hem  of  her  gown. 

"  Then  I  like  to  stay,"  said  Godfrey,  with  a  reck- 
less determination  to  get  as  much  of  this  joy  as  he 
could  to-night,  and  think  nothing  of  the  morrow. 


CHAPTEK    XII. 

While  Godfrey  Cass  was  taking  draughts  of  for- 
getfulness  from  the  sweet  presence  of  Nancy,  will- 
ingly losing  all  sense  of  that  hidden  bond  which 
at  other  moments  galled  and  fretted  him  so  as  to 
mingle  irritation  with  the  very  sunshine,  Godfrey's 
wife  was  walking  with  slow  uncertain  steps  through 
the  snow-covered  Raveloe  lanes,  carrying  her  child 
in  her  arms. 

This  journey  on  Xew  Year's  Eve  was  a  premedi- 
tated act  of  vengeance  which  she  had  kept  in  her 
heart  ever  since  Godfrey,  in  a  fit  of  passion,  had 
told  her  he  would  sooner  die  than  acknowledge  her 
as  his  wife.  There  would  be  a  great  party  at  the 
Eed  House  on  Xew  Year's  Eve,  she  knew :  her  hus- 
band would  be  smiling  and  smiled  upon,  hiding  Tier 
existence  in  the  darkest  corner  of  his  heart.  But 
slie  would  mar  his  pleasure :  she  would  go  in  her 
dingy  rags,  with  her  faded  face,  once  as  handsome 
as  the  best,  with  her  little  child  that  had  its 
father's  hair  and  eyes,  and  disclose  herself  to  the 
Squire  as  his  eldest  son's  wife.  It  is  seldom  that 
the  miserable  can  help  regarding  their  misery  as  a 
wrong  inflicted  by  those  who  are  less  miserable. 
Molly  knew  that  the  cause  of  her  dingy  rags  was 
not  her  husband's  neglect,  but  the  demon  Opium  to 
whom  she  was  enslaved,  body  and  soul,  except  in 
the  lingering  mother's  tenderness  that  refused  to 
give  him  her  hungry  child.  She  knew  this  well; 
and  yet,  in  the  moments  of  wretched  unbenumbed 


ISO  SILAS  MARNER. 

consciousness,  the  sense  of  her  want  and  degrada- 
tion transformed  itself  continually  into  bitterness 
towards  Godfrey.  He  was  well  off;  and  if  she  had 
her  rights,  she  would  be  well  off  too.  The  belief  that 
he  repented  his  marriage,  and  suffered  from  it,  only 
aggravated  her  vindictiveness.  Just  and  self-re- 
proving thoughts  do  not  come  to  us  too  thickly, 
even  in  the  purest  air  and  with  the  best  lessons  of 
heaven  and  earth  ;  how  should  those  white-winged 
delicate  messengers  make  their  way  to  Molly's 
poisoned  chamber,  inhabited  by  no  higher  memories 
than  those  of  a  barmaid's  paradise  of  pink  ribbons 
and  gentlemen's  jokes  ? 

She  had  set  out  at  an  early  Jiour,  but  had  lingered 
on  the  road,  inclined  by  her  indolence  to  believe 
that  if  she  waited  under  a  warm  shed,  the  snow 
would  cease  to  fall.  She  had  waited  longer  than 
she  knew,  and  now  that  she  found  herself  belated 
in  the  snow-hidden  ruggedness  of  the  long  lanes, 
even  the  animation  of  a  vindictive  purpose  could 
not  keep  her  spirit  from  failing.  It  was  seven 
o'clock,  and  by  this  time  she  was  not  very  far  from 
Raveloe,  but  she  was  not  familiar  enough  with  those 
monotonous  lanes  to  know  how  near  she  was  to  her 
journey's  end.  She  needed  comfort,  and  she  knew 
but  one  comforter,  —  the  familiar  demon  in  her 
bosom ;  but  she  hesitated  a  moment,  after  drawing 
out  the  black  remnant,  before  she  raised  it  to  her 
lips.  In  that  moment  the  mother's  love  pleaded 
for  painful  consciousness  rather  than  oblivion,  — 
pleaded  to  be  left  in  aching  weariness,  rather  than 
to  have  the  encircling  arms  benumbed  so  that  they 
could  not  feel  the  dear  burden.  In  another  moment 
Molly  had  flung  something  away,  but  it  was  not  the 
black  remnant,  —  it  was  an  empty  phial.     And  she 


SILAS  MARNER.  151 

walked  on  again  under  the  breaking  cloud,  from 
wliicli  there  came  now  and  then  the  light  of  a 
quickly  veiled  star,  for  a  freezing  wind  had  sprung 
up  since  the  snowing  had  ceased.  But  she  walked  al- 
ways more  and  more  drowsily,  and  clutched  more  and 
more  automatically  the  sleeping  child  at  her  bosom. 

Slowly  the  demon  was  working  his  will,  and 
cold  and  weariness  were  liis  helpers.  Soon  she  felt 
not-hing  but  a  supreme  immediate  longmg  that  cur- 
tained off  all  futurity,  —  the  longing  to  lie  down  and 
sleep.  She  had  arrived  at  a  spot  where  her  foot- 
steps were  no  longer  checked  by  a  hedgerow,  and 
she  had  wandered  vaguely,  unable  to  distinguish 
any  objects,  notwithstanding  the  wide  whiteness 
around  her,  and  the  growing  starlight.  She  sank 
down  against  a  straggling  furze  bush,  an  easy  pil- 
low enough  ;  and  the  bed  of  snow,  too,  was  soft. 
She  did  not  feel  that  the  bed  was  cold,  and  did  not 
heed  whether  the  child  would  wake  and  cry  for 
her.  But  her  arms  had  not  yet  relaxed  their 
instinctive  clutch  ;  and  the  little  one  slumbered  on 
as  gently  as  if  it  had  been  rocked  in  a  lace-trimmed 
cradle. 

But  the  complete  torpor  came  at  last :  the  fingers 
lost  their  tension,  the  arms  unbent ;  then  the  little 
head  fell  away  from  the  bosom,  and  the  blue  eyes 
opened  wdde  on  the  cold  starlight.  At  first  there 
was  a  little  peevish  cry  of  "  mammy,"  and  an  effort 
to  regain  the  pillowing  arm  and  bosom ;  but  mam- 
my's ear  was  deaf,  and  the  pillow  seemed  to  be 
slipping  away  backward.  Suddenly,  as  the  child 
rolled  downward  on  its  mother's  knees,  all  wet 
with  snow,  its  eyes  were  caught  by  a  bright  glanc- 
ing light  on  the  white  ground,  and,  with  the  ready 
transition  of  infancy,  it  was  immediately  absorbed 


152  SILAS  MAHNER. 

in  watching  tlie  bright  living  thing  running  towards 
it,  yet  never  arriving.  That  bright  living  thing 
must  be  caught ;  and  in  an  instant  the  child  had 
slipped  on  all  fours,  and  held  out  one  little  hand 
to  catch  the  gleam.  But  the  gleam  would  not  be 
caught  in  that  way,  and  now  the  head  was  held  up 
to  see  where  the  cunning  gleam  came  from.  It 
came  from  a  very  bright  place  ;  and  the  little  one, 
rising  on  its  legs,  toddled  through  the  snow,  the 
old  grimy  shawl  in  which  it  was  wrapped  trailing 
behind  it,  and  the  queer  little  bonnet  dangling  at 
its  back,  —  toddled  on  to  the  open  door  of  Silas 
Marner's  cottage,  and  right  up  to  the  warm  hearth, 
where  there  was  a  bright  fire  of  logs  and  sticks, 
which  had  thoroughly  warmed  the  old  sack  (Silas's 
great-coat)  spread  out  on  the  bricks  to  dry.  The 
little  one,  accustomed  to  be  left  to  itself  for  long 
hours  without  notice  from  its  mother,  squatted 
down  on  the  sack,  and  spread  its  tiny  hands  towards 
the  blaze,  in  perfect  contentment,  gurgling  and 
making  many  inarticulate  communications  to  the 
cheerful  fire,  like  a  new-hatched  gosling  beginning 
to  find  itself  comfortable.  But  presently  the  warmth 
had  a  lulling  effect,  and  the  little  golden  head  sank 
down  on  the  old  sack,  and  the  blue  eyes  were  veiled 
by  their  delicate  half-transparent  lids. 

But  where  was  Silas  Marner  while  this  strange 
visitor  had  come  to  his  hearth  ?  He  was  in  the 
cottage,  but  he  did  not  see  the  child.  During  the 
last  few  weeks,  since  he  had  lost  his  money,  he  had 
contracted  the  habit  of  opening  his  door  and  looking 
out  from  time  to  time,  as  if  he  thought  that  his 
money  might  be  somehow  coming  back  to  him,  or 
that  some  trace,  some  news  of  it,  might  be  mysteri- 
ously on  the  road,  and  be  caught  by  the  listening 


SILAS  MARNER.  153 

ear  or  the  straining  eye.  It  was  chiefly  at  night, 
when  he  was  not  occupied  in  his  loom,  that  lie 
fell  into  this  repetition  of  an  act  for  which  he  could 
have  assigned  no  definite  purpose,  and  which  can 
hardly  be  understood  except  by  those  who  have 
undergone  a  bewildering  separation  from  a  su- 
premely loved  object.  In  the  evening  twilight, 
and  later  whenever  the  night  was  not  dark,  Silas 
looked  out  on  that  narrow  prospect  round  the 
Stone-pits,  listening  and  gazing,  not  with  hope,  but 
with  mere  yearning  and  unrest. 

This  morning  he  had  been  told  by  some  of  his 
neighbours  that  it  was  New  Year's  Eve,  and  that 
he  must  sit  up  and  hear  the  old  year  rung  out  and 
the  new  rung  in,  because  that  was  good  luck,  and 
might  bring  his  money  back  again.  This  was  only 
a  friendly  Eaveloe-way  of  jesting  with  the  half- 
crazy  oddities  of  a  miser,  but  it  had  perhaps  helped 
to  throw  Silas  into  a  more  than  usually  excited 
state.  Since  the  oncoming  of  twilight  he  had 
opened  his  door  again  and  again,  though  only  to 
shut  it  immediately  at  seeing  all  distance  veiled 
by  the  falling  snow.  But  the  last  time  he  opened 
it  the  snow  had  ceased,  and  the  clouds  were  parting 
here  and  there.  He  stood  and  listened,  and  gazed 
for  a  long  while,  —  there  was  really  something  on 
the  road  coming  towards  him  then,  but  he  caught 
no  sign  of  it ;  and  the  stillness  and  the  wide  track- 
less snow  seemed  to  narrow  his  solitude,  and  touched 
his  yearning  with  the  chill  of  despair.  He  went  in 
again,  and  put  his  right  hand  on  the  latch  of  the 
door  to  close  it, —  but  he  did  not  close  it  :  he  was 
arrested,  as  he  had  been  already  since  his  loss,  by 
the  invisible  wand  of  catalepsy,  and  stood  like  a 
graven  image,  with  wide  but  sightless  eyes,  holding 


154  SILAS  MARNER. 

open  his  door,  powerless  to  resist  either  the  good 
or  evil  that  might  enter  there. 

When  Marner's  sensibility  returned,  he  continued 
the  action  which  had  been  arrested,  and  closed  his 
door,  unaware  of  the  chasm  in  his  consciousness, 
unaware  of  any  intermediate  change,  except  that 
the  light  had  grown  dim,  and  that  he  was  chilled 
and  faint.  He  thought  he  had  been  too  long  stand- 
ing at  the  door  and  looking  out.  Turning  towards 
the  hearth,  where  the  two  logs  had  fallen  apart, 
and  sent  forth  only  a  red  uncertain  glimmer,  he 
seated  himself  on  his  fireside  chair,  and  was  stoop- 
ing to  push  his  logs  together,  when,  to  his  blurred 
vision,  it  seemed  as  if  there  were  gold  on  the  floor  in 
front  of  the  hearth.  Gold !  —  his  own  gold,  —  brought 
back  to  him  as  mysteriously  as  it  had  been  taken 
away  !  He  felt  his  heart  begin  to  beat  violently, 
and  for  a  few  moments  he  was  unable  to  stretch 
out  his  hand  and  grasp  the  restored  treasure.  The 
heap  of  gold  seemed  to  glow  and  get  larger  beneath 
his  agitated  gaze.  He  leaned  forward  at  last,  and 
stretched  forth  his  hand ;  but  instead  of  the  hard 
coin  with  the  familiar  resisting  outlme,  his  fingers 
encountered  soft  warm  curls.  In  utter  amazement, 
Silas  fell  on  his  knees  and  bent  his  head  low  to 
examine  the  marvel :  it  was  a  sleeping  child,  —  a 
round,  fair  thing,  with  soft  yellow  rings  all  over 
its  head.  Could  this  be  his  little  sister  come  back 
to  him  in  a  dream,  —  his  little  sister  whom  he  had 
carried  about  in  his  arms  for  a  year  before  she  died, 
when  he  was  a  small  boy  without  shoes  or  stock- 
ings? That  was  the  first  thought  that  darted 
across  Silas's  blank  wonderment.  Was  it  a  dream  ? 
He  rose  to  his  feet  again,  pushed  his  logs  together, 
and,    throwing   on   some   dried   leaves   and   sticks, 


SILAS  MARNER.  155 

raised  a  flame ;  but  the  flame  did  not  disperse  the 
vision,  —  it  only  lit  up  more  distinctly  the  little 
round  form  of  the  child,  and  its  shabby  clothing. 
It  was  very  much  like  his  little  sister.  Silas  sank 
into  his  chair  powerless,  under  the  double  presence 
of  an  inexplicable  surprise  and  a  hurrying  influx  of 
memories.  How  and  when  had  the  child  come  in 
without  his  knowledge  ?  He  had  never  been  be- 
yoDcl  the  door.  But  along  with  that  question,  and 
almost  thrusting  it  away,  there  was  a  vision  of  the 
old  home  and  the  old  streets  leading  to  Lantern 
Yard,  —  and  within  that  vision  another,  of  the 
thoughts  which  had  been  present  with  him  in  those 
far-off  scenes.  The  thoughts  were  strange  to  him 
now,  like  old  friendships  impossible  to  revive ;  and 
yet  he  had  a  dreamy  feeling  that  this  child  was 
somehow  a  message  come  to  him  from  that  far- 
off  life :  it  stirred  fibres  that  had  never  been  moved 
in  Eaveloe,  —  old  quiverings  of  tenderness,  —  old 
impressions  of  awe  at  the  presentiment  of  some 
Power  presiding  over  his  life ;  for  his  imagination 
had  not  yet  extricated  itself  from  the  sense  of 
mystery  in  the  child's  sudden  presence,  and  had 
formed  no  conjectures  of  ordinary  natural  means 
by  which  the  event  could  have  been  brought 
about. 

But  there  was  a  cry  on  the  hearth :  the  child  had 
awaked,  and  Marner  stooped  to  lift  it  on  his  knee. 
It  clung  round  his  neck,  and  burst  louder  and 
louder  into  that  mingling  of  inarticulate  cries  with 
"  mammy "  by  which  little  children  express  the 
bewilderment  of  waking.  Silas  pressed  it  to  him, 
and  almost  unconsciously  uttered  sounds  of  hush- 
ing tenderness,  while  he  bethought  himself  that 
some  of  his  porridge,  which  had  got  cool  by  the 


> 


156  SILAS  MARNER. 

dying  fire,  would  do  to  feed  the  child  with  if  it 
were  only  warmed  up  a  little. 

He  had  plenty  to  do  through  the  next  hour.  The 
porridge,  sweetened  with  some  dry  brown  sugar 
from  an  old  store  which  he  had  refrained  from 
using  for  himself,  stopped  the  cries  of  the  little 
one,  and  made  her  lift  her  blue  eyes  with  a  wide 
quiet  gaze  at  Silas,  as  he  put  the  spoon  into  her 
mouth.  Presently  she  slipped  from  his  knee  and 
began  to  toddle  about,  but  with  a  pretty  stagger 
that  made  Silas  jump  up  and  follow  her  lest  she 
should  fall  against  anything  that  would  hurt  her. 
But  she  only  fell  in  a  sitting  posture  on  the  ground, 
and  began  to  pull  at  her  boots,  looking  up  at  him 
with  a  crying  face  as  if  the  boots  hurt  her.  He 
took  her  on  his  knee  again,  but  it  was  some  time 
before  it  occurred  to  Silas's  dull  bachelor  mind 
that  the  wet  boots  were  the  grievance,  pressing  on 
her  warm  ankles.  He  got  them  off  with  difficulty, 
and  baby  was  at  once  happily  occupied  with  the 
primary  mystery  of  her  own  toes,  inviting  Silas, 
with  much  chuckling,  to  consider  the  mystery  too. 
But  the  wet  boots  had  at  last  suggested  to  Silas 
that  the  child  had  been  walking  on  the  snow,  and 
this  roused  him  from  his  entire  oblivion  of  any 
ordinary  means  by  which  it  could  have  entered 
or  been  brought  into  his  house.  Under  the  prompt- 
ing of  this  new  idea,  and  without  waiting  to  form 
conjectures,  he  raised  the  child  in  his  arms,  and 
went  to  the  door.  As  soon  as  he  had  opened  it, 
there  was  the  cry  of  "  mammy  "  again,  which  Silas 
had  not  heard  since  the  child's  first  hungry  waking. 
Bending  forward,  he  could  just  discern  the  marks 
made  by  the  little  feet  on  the  virgin  snow,  and  he 
followed  their  track  to  the  furze  bushes.    "  Mammy ! " 


SILAS  MARNER.  157 

the  little  one  cried  again  and  again,  stretching  itself 
forward  so  as  almost  to  escape  from  Silas's  arms, 
before  he  himself  was  aw^are  that  there  was  some- 
thmg  more  than  the  bush  before  him,  —  that  there 
was  a  human  body,  with  the  head  sunk  low  in  the 
furze,  and  half  covered  with  the  shaken  snow. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

It  was  after  the  early  supper-time  at  the  Red 
House,  and  the  eutertainment  was  in  that  stage 
when  bashfulness  itself  had  passed  into  easy  jollity, 
when  gentlemen,  conscious  of  unusual  accomplish- 
ments, could  at  length  be  prevailed  on  to  dance  a 
hornpipe,  and  when  the  Squire  preferred  talking 
loudly,  scattering  snuff,  and  patting  his  visitors' 
backs,  to  sitting  longer  at  the  whist-table,  —  a 
choice  exasperating  to  uncle  Kimble,  who,  being 
always  volatile  in  sober  business  hours,  became 
intense  and  bitter  over  cards  and  brandy,  shuffled 
before  his  adversary's  deal  with  a  glare  of  suspicion, 
and  turned  up  a  mean  trump-card  with  an  air  of 
inexpressible  disgust,  as  if  in  a  world  where  such 
things  could  happen  one  might  as  well  enter  on  a 
course  of  reckless  profligacy.  When  the  evening 
had  advanced  to  this  pitch  of  freedom  and  enjoy- 
ment, it  was  usual  for  the  servants,  the  heavy 
duties  of  supper  being  well  over,  to  get  their  share 
of  amusement  by  coming  to  look  on  at  the  dancing ; 
so  that  the  back  regions  of  the  house  were  left  in 
solitude. 

There  were  two  doors  by  which  the  "V^^lite  Par- 
lour was  entered  from  the  hall,  and  they  were  both 
standing  open  for  the  sake  of  air ;  but  the  lower 
one  was  crowded  with  the  servants  and  villagers, 
and  only  the  upper  doorway  was  left  free.  Bob 
Cass  was  figuring  in  a  hornpipe,  and  his  father, 
very  proud  of  this  lithe  son,  whom  he  repeatedly 


SILAS  MARNER.  159 

declared  to  be  just  like  himself  in  his  young  days 
in  a  tone  that  implied  this  to  be  the  very  highest 
stamp  of  juvenile  merit,  was  the  centre  of  a  group 
who  had  placed  themselves  opposite  the  performer, 
not  far  from  the  upper  door.  Godfrey  was  standing 
a  little  way  off,  not  to  admire  his  brother's  dancing, 
but  to  keep  sight  of  Nancy,  who  was  seated  in  the 
group,  near  her  father.  He  stood  aloof,  because  he 
wished  to  avoid  suggestmg  himself  as  a  subject  for 
the  Squire's  fatherly  jokes  in  connection  with  matri- 
mony and  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter's  beauty,  which 
were  likely  to  become  more  and  more  explicit.  But 
he  had  the  prospect  of  dancing  with  her  again  when 
the  hornpipe  was  concluded,  and  in  the  mean  while 
it  was  very  pleasant  to  get  long  glances  at  her  quite 
unobserved. 

But  when  Godfrey  was  lifting  his  eyes  from  one 
of  those  long  glances,  they  encountered  an  object 
as  startling  to  him  at  that  moment  as  if  it  had 
been  an  apparition  from  the  dead.  It  was  an  appa- 
rition from  that  hidden  life  which  lies,  like  a  dark 
by-street,  behind  the  goodly  ornamented  fagade  that 
meets  the  sunlight  and  the  gaze  of  respectable  ad- 
mirers. It  was  his  own  child  carried  in  Silas 
Marner's  arms.  That  was  his  instantaneous  impres- 
sion, unaccompanied  by  doubt,  though  he  had  not 
seen  the  child  for  months  past ;  and  w^hen  the  hope 
was  rising  that  he  might  possibly  be  mistaken,  Mr. 
Crackenthorp  and  Mr.  Lammeter  had  already  ad- 
vanced to  Silas,  in  astonishment  at  this  strange 
advent.  Godfrey  joined  them  immediately,  unable 
to  rest  without  hearing  every  word,  —  trying  to  con- 
trol himself,  bvit  conscious  that  if  any  one  noticed 
him,  they  must  see  that  he  was  white-lipped  and 
trembling. 


r6o  SILAS  MARNER. 

But  now  all  eyes  at  that  end  of  the  room  were 
bent  on  Silas  Marner ;  the  Squire  himself  had  risen, 
and  asked  angrily,  "  How  's  this  ?  —  what 's  this  ?  — 
what  do  you  do  coming  in  here  in  this  way  ? " 

"  I  'm  come  for  the  doctor,  —  I  want  the  doc- 
tor," Silas  had  said,  in  the  first  moment,  to  Mr. 
Crackenthorp. 

"  Why,  what 's  the  matter,  Marner  ? "  said  the 
Eector.  "  The  doctor  's  here ;  but  say  quietly  what 
you  want  him  for." 

"It's  a  woman,"  said  Silas,  speaking  low,  and 
half  breathlessly,  just  as  Godfrey  came  up.  "  She  's 
dead,  I  think,  —  dead  in  the  snow  at  the  Stone-pits, 
—  not  far  from  my  door." 

Godfrey  felt  a  great  throb :  there  was  one  ter- 
ror in  his  mind  at  that  moment ;  it  was  that 
the  woman  might  not  be  dead.  Tliat  was  an  evil 
terror,  —  an  ugly  inmate  to  have  found  a  nest- 
ling-place in  Godfrey's  kindly  disposition ;  but  no 
disposition  is  a  security  from  evil  wishes  to  a  man 
whose  happiness  hangs  on  duplicity. 

"  Hush,  hush  !  "  said  Mr.  Crackenthorp.  "  Go 
out  into  the  hall  there.  I'll  fetch  the  doctor  to 
you.  Found  a  woman  in  the  snow,  —  and  thinks 
she  's  dead,"  he  added,  speaking  low  to  the  Squire. 
"  Better  say  as  little  about  it  as  possible :  it  will 
shock  the  ladies.  Just  tell  them  a  poor  woman  is 
ill  from  cold  and  hunger.    I  '11  go  and  fetch  Kimble." 

By  this  time,  however,  the  ladies  had  pressed 
forward,  curious  to  know  what  could  have  brought 
the  solitary  linen-weaver  there  under  such  strange 
circumstances,  and  interested  in  the  pretty  child, 
who,  half  alarmed  and  half  attracted  by  the  bright- 
ness and  the  numerous  company,  now  frowned  and 
hid  her   face,  now   lifted  up  her  head  again  and 


SILAS  MARNER.  i6i 

looked  round  placably,  until  a  touch  or  a  coaxing 
word  brought  back  the  frown,  and  made  her  bury 
her  face  with  new  determination. 

"  What  child  is  it  ?  "  said  several  ladies  at  once, 
and,  among  the  rest,  Nancy  Lammeter,  addressing 
Godfrey. 

"  I  don't  know,  —  some  poor  woman  's  who  has 
been  found  in  the  snow,  I  believe,"  was  the  answer 
Godfrey  wrung  from  himself  with  a  terrible  effort. 
("After  all,  am  I  certain?"  he  hastened  to  add,  in 
anticipation  of  his  own  conscience.) 

"  Why,  you  'd  better  leave  the  child  here,  then. 
Master  Marner,"  said  good-natured  Mrs.  Kimble, 
hesitating,  however,  to  take  those  dingy  clothes 
into  contact  with  her  own  ornamented  satin  bodice. 
"  I  '11  tell  one  o'  the  girls  to  fetch  it." 

"  No  —  no  —  I  can't  part  with  it,  I  can't  let  it 
go,"  said  Silas,  abruptly.  "  It 's  come  to  me,  —  I  've 
a  right  to  keep  it." 

The  proposition  to  take  the  child  from  him  had 
come  to  Silas  quite  unexpectedly,  and  his  speech, 
uttered  under  a  strong  sudden  impulse,  was  almost 
like  a  revelation  to  himself :  a  minute  before,  he 
had  no  distinct  intention  about  the  child. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  ?  "  said  j\Irs.  Kimble, 
in  mild  surprise,  to  her  neighbour. 

"  Now,  ladies,  I  must  trouble  you  to  stand  aside," 
said  Mr.  Kimble,  coming  from  the  card-room,  in 
some  bitterness  at  the  interruption,  but  drilled  by 
the  long  habit  of  his  profession  into  obedience  to 
unpleasant  calls,  even  when  he  was  hardly  sober. 

"  It 's  a  nasty  business  turning  out  now,  eh, 
Kimble  ? "  said  the  Squire.  "  He  might  ha'  gone 
for  your  young  fellow  —  the  'prentice,  there  — 
what 's  his  name  ? " 

11 


i62  SILAS  MARNER. 

"  Might  ?  ay,  —  what 's  the  use  of  talking  about 
might  ?  "  growled  uncle  Kimble,  hastening  out  with 
Marner,  and  followed  by  Mr.  Crackenthorp  and 
Godfrey.  "  G-et  me  a  pair  of  thick  boots,  Godfrey, 
will  you?  And  stay,  let  somebody  run  to  Win- 
throp's  and  fetch  Dolly,  —  she 's  the  best  woman 
to  get,  Ben  was  here  himself  before  supper;  is 
he  gone  ? " 

"Yes,  sir,  I  met  him,"  said  Marner;  "but  I 
could  n't  stop  to  tell  him  anything,  only  I  said  I 
was  going  for  the  doctor,  and  he  said  the  doctor 
was  at  the  Squire's.  And  I  made  haste  and  ran, 
and  there  was  nobody  to  be  seen  at  the  back  o'  the 
house,  and  so  I  went  in  to  where  the  company  was." 

The  child,  no  longer  distracted  by  the  bright  light 
and  the  smiling  women's  faces,  began  to  cry  and 
call  for  "mammy,"  though  always  clinging  to 
Marner,  who  had  apparently  won  her  thorough 
confidence.  Godfrey  had  come  back  with  the 
boots,  and  felt  the  cry  as  if  some  fibre  were  drawn 
tight  within  him. 

"I'll  go,"  he  said  hastily,  eager  for  some  move- 
ment ;  "  I  '11  go  and  fetch  the  woman,  —  Mrs.  Win- 
throp." 

"  Oh,  pooh,  —  send  somebody  else,"  said  uncle 
Kimble,  hurrying  away  with  Marner. 

"  You  '11  let  me  know  if  I  can  be  of  any  use, 
Kimble,"  said  Mr.  Crackenthorp.  But  the  doctor 
was  out  of  hearing. 

Godfrey,  too,  had  disappeared:  he  was  gone  to 
snatch  his  hat  and  coat,  having  just  reflection  enough 
to  remember  that  he  must  not  look  like  a  madman ; 
but  he  rushed  out  of  the  house  into  the  snow  with- 
out heeding  his  thin  shoes. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  was  on  his  rapid  way  to  the 


SILAS  MARNER.  163 

Stone-pits  by  the  side  of  Dolly,  who,  though  feeling 
that  she  was  entirely  in  her  place  in  encountering 
cold  and  snow  on  an  errand  of  mercy,  was  much 
concerned  at  a  young  gentleman's  getting  his  feet 
wet  under  a  like  impulse. 

"You'd  a  deal  better  go  back,  sir,"  said  Dolly, 
with  respectful  compassion.  "  You  've  no  call  to 
catch  cold ;  and  I  'd  ask  you  if  you  'd  be  so  good  as 
tell  my  husband  to  come,  on  your  way  back, —  he  's 
at  the  Eainbow,  I  doubt,  —  if  you  found  him  anyway 
sober  enough  to  be  o'  use.  Or  else,  there 's  Mrs.  Snell 
'ud  happen  send  the  boy  up  to  fetch  and  carry,  for 
there  may  be  things  wanted  from  the  doctor's." 

"  No,  I  '11  stay,  now  I  'm  once  out,  —  I  '11  stay  out- 
side here,"  said  Godfrey,  when  they  came  opposite 
Marner's  cottage.  "  You  can  come  and  tell  me  if  I 
can  do  anything." 

"  Well,  sir,  you  're  very  good  :  you  've  a  tender 
heart,"  said  Dolly,  going  to  the  door. 

Godfrey  was  too  painfully  preoccupied  to  feel  a 
twinge  of  self-reproach  at  this  undeserved  praise. 
He  walked  up  and  down,  unconscious  that  he  was 
plunging  ankle-deep  in  snow,  unconscious  of  every- 
thing but  trembling  suspense  about  what  was  going 
on  in  the  cottage,  and  the  effect  of  each  alternative 
on  his  future  lot.  No,  not  quite  unconscious  of  every- 
thing else.  Deeper  down,  and  half  smothered  by 
passionate  desire  and  dread,  there  was  the  sense  that 
he  ought  not  to  be  waiting  on  these  alternatives  ; 
that  he  ought  to  accept  the  consequences  of  his 
deeds,  own  the  miserable  wife,  and  fulfil  the  claims 
of  the  helpless  child.  But  he  had  not  moral  courage 
enough  to  contemplate  that  active  renunciation  of 
Nancy  as  possible  for  him :  he  had  only  conscience 
and  heart  enough  to  make  him  forever  uneasy  under 


1 64  SILAS  MAENER. 

the  weakness  that  forbade  the  renunciation.  And  at 
this  moment  his  mind  leaped  away  from  all  restraint 
towards  the  sudden  prospect  of  deliverance  from  his 
long  bondage. 

"  Is  she  dead  ? "  said  the  voice  that  predominated 
over  every  other  within  him.  "If  she  is,  I  may 
marry  Nancy ;  and  then  I  shall  be  a  good  fellow 
in  future,  and  have  no  secrets,  and  the  child  —  shall 
be  taken  care  of  somehow."  But  across  that  vision 
came  the  other  possibility,  —  "  She  may  live,  and 
then  it's  all  up  with    me." 

Godfrey  never  knew  how  long  it  was  before  the 
door  of  the  cottage  opened  and  Mr.  Kimble  came 
out.  He  went  forward  to  meet  his  uncle,  prepared 
to  suppress  the  agitation  he  must  feel,  whatever 
news  he  was  to  hear. 

"  I  waited  for  you,  as  I  'd  come  so  far,"  he  said, 
speaking  first. 

"  Pooh,  it  was  nonsense  for  you  to  come  out :  why 
did  n  't  you  send  one  of  the  men  ?  There  's  nothing 
to  be  done.  She 's  dead,  —  has  been  dead  for  hours, 
I  should  say." 

"  What  sort  of  woman  is  she  ? "  said  Godfrey, 
feeling  the  blood  rush  to  his  face. 

"  A  young  woman,  but  emaciated,  with  long  black 
hair.  Some  vagrant,  —  quite  in  rags.  She  's  got  a 
wedding-ring  on,  however.  They  must  fetch  her  away 
to  the  workhouse  to-morrow.     Come,  come  along." 

"  I  want  to  look  at  her,"  said  Godfrey.  "  I  think 
I  saw  such  a  woman  yesterday.  I  '11  overtake  you 
in  a  minute  or  two." 

Mr.  Kimble  went  on,  and  Godfrey  turned  back  to 
the  cottage.  He  cast  only  one  glance  at  the  dead 
face  on  the  pillow,  which  Dolly  had  smoothed  with 
decent  care ;  but  he  remembered  that  last  look  at  his 


SILAS  MARNEK  165 

unhappy  hated  wife  so  well  that  at  the  end  of  sixteen 
years  every  line  in  the  worn  face  was  present  to 
him  when  he  told  the  full  story  of  this  night. 

He  turned  immediately  towards  the  hearth, 
where  Silas  Marner  sat  lulling  the  child.  She  was 
perfectly  quiet  now,  but  not  asleep,  —  only  soothed 
by  sweet  porridge  and  warmth  into  that  wide-gaz- 
ing calm  which  makes  us  older  human  beings,  with 
our  inward  turmoil,  feel  a  certain  awe  in  the 
presence  of  a  little  child,  such  as  we  feel  before 
some  quiet  majesty  or  beauty  in  the  earth  or  sky, 
—  before  a  steady  glowing  planet,  or  a  full-flowered 
eglantine,  or  the  bending  trees  over  a  silent  path- 
way. The  wide-open  blue  eyes  looked  up  at  God- 
frey's without  any  uneasiness  or  sign  of  recognition  : 
the  child  could  make  no  visible  audible  claim  on  its 
father;  and  the  father  felt  a  strange  mixture  of 
feelings,  a  conflict  of  regret  and  joy,  that  the  pulse 
of  that  little  heart  had  no  response  for  the  half- 
jealous  yearning  in  his  own,  when  the  blue  eyes 
turned  away  from  him  slowly,  and  fixed  themselves 
on  the  weaver's  queer  face,  which  was  bent  low 
down  to  look  at  them,  while  the  small  hand  be- 
gan to  pull  Marner's  withered  cheek  with  loving 
disfiguration. 

"You'll  take  the  child  to  the  parish  to-mor- 
row ? "  asked  Godfrey,  speaking  as  indifferently  as 
he  could. 

"  Who  says  so  ? "  said  Marner,  sharply.  "  Will 
they  make  me  take  her  ? " 

"  Why,  you  would  n't  like  to  keep  her,  should 
you,  —  an  old  bachelor  like  you  ? " 

"  Till  anybody  shows  they  've  a  right  to  take  her 
away  from  me,"  said  Marner.  '•'  The  mother 's  dead, 
and  I  reckon  it 's  got  no  father :  it 's  a  lone  thing, 


1 66  SILAS  MARNER. 

—  and  I  'm  a  lone  tiling.  My  money 's  gone,  I  don't 
know  where,  —  and  this  is  come  from  I  don't  know 
where.     I  know  nothing,  —  I  'm  partly  mazed." 

"  Poor  little  thing  ! "  said  Godfrey.  "  Let  me  give 
something  towards  finding  it  clothes." 

He  had  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  found  half  a 
guinea,  and,  thrusting  it  into  Silas's  hand,  he  hur- 
ried out  of  the  cottage  to  overtake  Mr.  Kimble. 

"  Ah,  I  see  it 's  not  the  same  woman  I  saw,"  he 
said,  as  he  came  up.  "  It 's  a  pretty  little  child  : 
the  old  fellow  seems  to  want  to  keep  it;  that's 
strange  for  a  miser  like  him.  But  I  gave  him  a 
trifle  to  help  him  out :  the  parish  is  n't  likely  to 
quarrel  with  him  for  the  right  to  keep  the  child." 

"  No ;  but  I  've  seen  the  time  when  I  might  have 
quarrelled  with  him  for  it  myself.  It 's  too  late 
now,  though.  If  the  child  ran  into  the  fire,  your 
aunt 's  too  fat  to  overtake  it :  she  could  only  sit 
and  grunt  like  an  alarmed  sow.  But  what  a  fool 
you  are,  Godfrey,  to  come  out  in  your  dancing- 
shoes  and  stockings  in  this  way,  —  and  you  one  of 
the  beaux  of  the  evening,  and  at  your  own  house ! 
What  do  you  mean  by  such  freaks,  young  fellow  ? 
Has  Miss  Nancy  been  cruel,  and  do  you  want  to 
spite  her  by  spoiling  your  pumps  ? " 

"  Oh,  everything  has  been  disagreeable  to-night. 
I  was  tired  to  death  of  jigging  and  gallanting,  and 
that  bother  about  the  hornpipes.  And  I  'd  got  to 
dance  with  the  other  Miss  Gunn,"  said  Godfrey,  glad 
of  the  subterfuge  his  uncle  had  suggested  to  him. 

The  prevarication  and  white  lies  which  a  mind 
that  keeps  itself  ambitiously  pure  is  as  uneasy  under 
as  a  great  artist  under  the  false  touches  that  no  eye 
detects  but  his  own,  are  worn  as  lightly  as  mere 
trimmings  when  once  the  actions  have  become  a  lie. 


SILAS  MARKER.  167 

Godfrey  reappeared  in  the  White  Parlour  with 
dry  feet,  and,  since  the  truth  must  be  told,  with  a 
sense  of  relief  and  gladness  that  was  too  strong  for 
painful  thoughts  to  struggle  with.  For  could  he 
not  venture  now,  whenever  opportunity  offered,  to 
say  the  tenderest  things  to  Nancy  Lammeter,  —  to 
promise  her  and  himself  that  he  would  always  be 
just  what  she  would  desire  to  see  him  ?  There  was 
no  danger  that  his  dead  wife  would  be  recognized : 
those  were  not  days  of  active  inquiry  and  wide 
report ;  and  as  for  the  registry  of  their  marriage, 
that  was  a  long  way  off",  buried  in  unturned  pages, 
away  from  every  one's  interest  but  his  own.  Dun- 
sey  might  betray  him  if  he  came  back ;  but  Dunsey 
might  be  won  to  silence. 

And  when  events  turn  out  so  much  better  for  a 
man  than  he  has  had  reason  to  dread,  is  it  not  a 
proof  that  his  conduct  has  been  less  foolish  and 
blameworthy  than  it  might  otherwise  have  ap- 
peared ?  When  we  are  treated  well,  we  naturally 
begin  to  think  that  we  are  not  altogether  unmerito- 
rious,  and  that  it  is  only  just  we  should  treat  our- 
selves well,  and  not  mar  our  own  good  fortune. 
Where,  after  all,  would  be  the  use  of  his  confessing 
the  past  to  Nancy  Lammeter,  and  throwing  away 
his  happiness  ?  —  nay,  hers  ?  for  he  felt  some  confi- 
dence that  she  loved  him.  As  for  the  child,  he 
would  see  that  it  was  cared  for:  he  would  never 
forsake  it ;  he  would  do  everything  but  own  it. 
Perhaps  it  would  be  just  as  happy  in  life  without 
being  owned  by  its  father,  seeing  that  nobody  could 
tell  how  things  would  turn  out,  and  that  —  is  there 
any  other  reason  wanted  ?  —  well,  then,  that  the 
father  would  be  much  happier  without  ov/ning  the 
child. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Theke  was  a  pauper's  burial  that  week  in  Eaveloe, 
and  up  Kench  Yard  at  Batherley  it  was  known 
that  the  dark-haired  woman  with  the  fair  child, 
who  had  lately  come  to  lodge  there,  was  gone 
away  again.  That  was  all  the  express  note  taken 
that  Molly  had  disappeared  from  the  eyes  of  men. 
But  the  unwept  death  which,  to  the  general  lot, 
seemed  as  trivial  as  the  summer-shed  leaf,  was 
charged  with  the  force  of  destiny  to  certain  human 
lives  that  we  know  of,  shaping  their  joys  and 
sorrows  even  to  the  end. 

Silas  Marner's  determination  to  keep  the  "  tramp's 
child "  was  matter  of  hardly  less  surprise  and  ite- 
rated talk  in  the  village  than  the  robbery  of  his 
money.  That  softening  of  feeling  towards  him 
which  dated  from  his  misfortune,  that  merging 
of  suspicion  and  dislike  in  a  rather  contemptuous 
pity  for  him  as  lone  and  crazy,  was  now  accom- 
panied with  a  more  active  sympathy,  especially 
among  the  women.  Notable  mothers,  who  knew 
what  it  was  to  keep  children  "  whole  and  sweet ; " 
lazy  mothers,  who  knew  what  it  was  to  be  inter- 
rupted in  folding  their  arms  and  scratching  their 
elbows  by  the  mischievous  propensities  of  children 
just  firm  on  their  legs, —  were  equally  interested  in 
conjecturing  how  a  lone  man  would  manage  with 
a  two-year-old  child  on  his  hands,  and  were  equally 
ready  with  their  suggestions ;  the  notable  chiefly 
telling  him  what  he  had  better  do,  and  the   lazy 


SILAS  MARNER.  169 

ones  being  emphatic  in  telling  liim  what  he  would 
never  be  able  to  do. 

Among  the  notable  mothers,  Dolly  Winthrop 
was  the  one  whose  neighbourly  offices  were  the 
most  acceptable  to  Marner,  for  they  were  rendered 
without  any  show  of  bustling  instruction,  Silas 
had  shown  her  the  half-guinea  given  to  him  by 
Godfrey,  and  had  asked  her  what  he  should  do 
about  getting  some  clothes  for  the  child. 

"  Eh,  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly,  "  there 's  no 
call  to  buy,  no  more  nor  a  pair  o'  shoes  ;  for  I  've 
got  the  little  petticoats  as  Aaron  wore  five  years 
ago,  and  it 's  ill  spending  the  money  on  them 
baby-clothes,  for  the  child  'ull  grow  like  grass  i' 
May,  bless  it,  —  that  it  will." 

And  the  same  day  Dolly  brought  her  bundle, 
and  displayed  to  Marner,  one  by  one,  the  tiny  gar- 
ments in  their  due  order  of  succession,  most  of  them 
patched  and  darned,  but  clean  and  neat  as  fresh- 
sprung  herbs.  This  was  the  introduction  to  a  great 
ceremony  with  soap  and  water,  from  which  Baby 
came  out  in  new  beauty,  and  sat  on  Dolly's  knee, 
handling  her  toes  and  chuckling  and  patting  her 
palms  together  with  an  air  of  having  made  several 
discoveries  about  herself,  which  she  communicated 
by  alternate  sounds  of  "  gug-gug-gug  "  and  "  mammy." 
The  "  mammy "  was  not  a  cry  of  need  or  uneasi- 
ness :  Baby  had  been  used  to  utter  it  without  ex- 
pecting either  tender  sound  or  touch  to  follow. 

"  Anybody  'ud  think  the  angils  in  heaven  could  n't 
be  prettier,"  said  Dolly,  rubbing  the  golden  curls 
and  kissing  them.  "And  to  think  of  its  being 
covered  wi'  them  dirty  rags,  —  and  the  poor  mother 
froze  to  death ;  but  there  's  Them  as  took  care  of 
it,  and  brought  it  to   your  door,  Master   Marner. 


U 


I70  SILAS  MARNER. 

The  door  was  open,  and  it  walked  in  over  the  snow, 
like  as  if  it  had  been  a  little  starved  robin.  Did  n't 
you  say  the  door  was  open  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Silas,  meditatively.  "  Yes,  —  the 
door  was  open.  The  money's  gone  I  don't  know 
where,  and  this  is  come  from  I  don't  know  where." 

He  had  not  mentioned  to  any  one  his  uncon- 
sciousness of  the  child's  entrance,  shrinking  from 
questions  which  might  lead  to  the  fact  he  himself 
suspected,  —  namely,  that  he  had  been  in  one  of 
his  trances. 

"  Ah,"  said  Dolly,  with  soothing  gravity,  "  it 's 
like  the  night  and  the  morning,  and  the  sleeping 
and  the  waking,  and  the  rain  and  the  harvest, — 
one  goes  and  the  other  comes,  and  we  know 
nothing  how  nor  where.  We  may  strive  and 
scrat  and  fend,  but  it 's  little  we  can  do  arter  all, 
—  the  big  things  come  and  go  wi'  no  striving  o' 
our'n,  —  they  do,  that  they  do ;  and  I  think  you  're 
in  the  right  on  it  to  keep  the  little  un.  Master 
Marner,  seeing  as  it 's  been  sent  to  you,  though 
there  's  folks  as  thinks  difterent.  You  '11  happen 
be  a  bit  moithered  with  it  while  it 's  so  little ;  but 
I  '11  come,  and  welcome,  and  see  to  it  for  you  :  I  've 
a  bit  o'  time  to  spare  most  days,  for  when  one  gets 
up  betimes  i'  the  morning,  the  clock  seems  to  stan' 
still  tow'rt  ten,  afore  it 's  time  to  go  about  the  vict- 
ual. So,  as  I  say,  I  '11  come  and  see  to  the  child 
for  you,  and  welcome." 

"  Thank  you,  —  kindly,"  said  Silas,  hesitating  a 
little.  "I  '11  be  glad  if  you  '11  tell  me  things. 
But,"  he  added  uneasily,  leaning  forward  to  look 
at  Baby  with  some  jealousy,  as  she  was  resting  her 
head  backward  against  Dolly's  arm,  and  eying  him 
contentedly  from  a  distance,  —  "  but  I  want  to  do 


Silas  Marner,  Dolly  Winthrop,  and  Eppie. 
Photo- Etching-.  —  From  Drawing  by  W-  L;  Taylor. 


SILAS  MARKER.  171 

things  for  it  myself,  else  it  may  get  fond  0'  some- 
body else,  and  not  fond  0'  me,  I  've  been  used  to 
fending  for  myself  in  the  house,  —  I  can  learn,  I 
can  learn." 

"  Eh,  to  be  sure,"  said  Dolly,  gently.  "  I  've  seen 
men  as  are  wonderful  handy  wi'  children.  The 
men  are  awk'ard  and  contrairy  mostly,  God  help 
'em,  —  but  when  the  drink  's  out  of  'em,  they  are  n't 
unsensible,  though  they  're  bad  for  leeching  and 
bandaging,  —  so  fiery  and  unpatient.  You  see  this 
goes  first,  next  the  skin,"  proceeded  Dolly,  taking 
up  the  little  shirt,  and  putting  it  on. 

"  Yes,"  said  Marner,  docilely,  bringing  Ms  eyes 
very  close,  that  they  might  be  initiated  in  the  mys- 
teries ;  whereupon  Baby  seized  his  head  with  both 
her  small  arms,  and  put  her  lips  against  his  face 
with  purring  noises. 

"  See  there,"  said  Dolly,  with  a  woman's  tender 
tact,  "  she  's  fondest  o'  you.  She  wants  to  go  0' 
your  lap,  I  '11  be  bound.  Go,  then :  take  her, 
Master  Marner ;  you  can  put  the  things  on,  and 
then  you  can  say  as  you  've  done  for  her  from  the 
first  of  her  coming  to  you." 

Marner  took  her  on  his  lap,  trembling  with  an 
emotion  mysterious  to  himself,  at  something  un- 
known dawning  on  his  life.  Thought  and  feeling 
were  so  confused  within  him,  that  if  he  had  tried  to 
give  them  utterance,  he  could  only  have  said  that 
the  child  was  come  instead  of  the  gold,  —  that 
the  gold  had  turned  into  the  child.  He  took  the 
garments  from  Dolly,  and  put  them  on  under 
her  teaching ;  interrupted,  of  course,  by  Baby's 
gymnastics. 

"  There,  then !  why,  you  take  to  it  quite  easy, 
Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly ;  "  but  what  shall  you 


172  SILAS  MAHNER. 

do  when  you  're  forced  to  sit  in  your  loom  ?  For 
she  '11  get  busier  and  mischievouser  every  day,  — 
she  will,  bless  her.  It 's  lucky  as  you  've  got  that 
high  hearth  i'stead  of  a  grate,  for  that  keeps  the  fire 
more  out  of  her  reach  ;  but  if  you  've  got  anything 
as  can  be  spilt  or  broke,  or  as  is  fit  to  cut  her  fin- 
gers oft',  she  '11  be  at  it,  —  and  it  is  but  right  you 
should  know." 

Silas  meditated  a  little  while  in  some  perplex- 
ity. "  I  '11  tie  her  to  the  leg  o'  the  loom,"  he  said 
at  last,  — "  tie  her  with  a  good  long  strip  o' 
something." 

"  Well,  mayhap  that  '11  do,  as  it  's  a  little  gell, 
for  they  're  easier  persuaded  to  sit  i'  one  place  nor 
the  lads.  I  know  what  the  lads  are ;  for  I  've  had 
four,  —  four  I  've  had,  God  knows,  —  and  if  you 
was  to  take  and  tie  'em  up,  they  'd  make  a  fight- 
ing and  a  crying  as  if  you  was  ringing  the  pigs. 
But  I  '11  bring  you  my  little  chair,  and  some  bits 
o'  red  rag  and  things  for  her  to  play  wi' ;  an'  she  '11 
sit  and  chatter  to  'em  as  if  they  was  alive.  Eh,  if 
it  was  n't  a  sin  to  the  lads  to  wish  'em  made  differ- 
ent, bless  'em,  I  should  ha'  been  glad  for  one  of 
'em  to  be  a  little  gell ;  and  to  think  as  I  could  ha' 
taught  her  to  scour,  and  mend,  and  the  knitting, 
and  everything.  But  I  can  teach  'em  this  little 
un,  Master  Marner,  when  she  gets  old  enough." 

"  But  she  '11  be  my  little  un,"  said  Marner,  rather 
hastily,     "  She  '11  be  nobody  else's." 

"  No,  to  be  sure  ;  you  '11  have  a  right  to  her,  if 
you  're  a  father  to  her,  and  bring  her  up  according. 
But,"  added  Dolly,  coming  to  a  point  which  she  had 
determined  beforehand  to  touch  upon,  "  you  must 
bring  her  up  like  christened  folks's  children,  and 
take  her  to  church,  and  let  her  learn  her  catechise. 


SILAS  MARNER.  173 

as  my  little  Aaron  can  say  off — the  'I  believe,' 
and  everything,  and  '  hurt  nolDody  by  word  or  d-eed ' 
—  as  well  as  if  he  was  the  clerk.  That 's  what  you 
must  do.  Master  Marner,  if  you  'd  do  the  right  thing 
by  the  orphin  child." 

Marner's  pale  face  flushed  suddenly  under  a  new 
anxiety.  His  mind  was  too  busy  trying  to  give 
some  definite  bearing  to  Dolly's  words  for  him  to 
think  of  answering  her. 

"  And  it 's  my  belief,"  she  went  on,  "  as  the  poor 
little  creature  has  never  been  christened,  and  it 's 
nothing  but  right  as  the  parson  should  be  spoke  to ; 
and  if  you  was  noways  unwilling,  I  'd  talk  to  Mr. 
Macey  about  it  this  very  day.  For  if  the  child  ever 
went  anyways  wrong,  and  you  hadn't  done  your 
part  by  it,  ]\Iaster  ]\Iarner,  —  'noculation,  and  every- 
thing to  save  it  from  harm,  —  it  'ud  be  a  thorn  i' 
your  bed  forever  o'  this  side  the  grave  ;  and  I  can't 
think  as  it  'ud  be  easy  lying  down  for  anybody 
when  they  'd  got  to  another  world,  if  they  had  n't 
done  their  part  by  the  helpless  children  as  come 
wi'out  their  own  asking." 

Dolly  herself  was  disposed  to  be  silent  for  some 
time  now,  for  she  had  spoken  from  the  depths  of 
her  own  simple  belief,  and  was  much  concerned  to 
know  whether  her  words  would  produce  the  desired 
effect  on  Silas.  He  was  puzzled  and  anxious,  for 
Dolly's  word  "  christened "  conveyed  no  distinct 
meaning  to  him.  He  had  only  heard  of  baptism, 
and  had  only  seen  the  baptism  of  grown-up  men 
and  women. 

"  What  is  it  as  you  mean  by  '  christened '  ?  "  he 
said  at  last,  timidly.  "  "Won't  folks  be  good  to  her 
without  it  ? " 

"  Dear,  dear !  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly,  with 


174  SILAS  MAENER. 

gentle  distress  and  compassion.  "Had  you  never 
no  father  nor  mother  as  taught  you  to  say  your 
prayers,  and  as  there  's  good  words  and  good  things 
to  keep  us  from  harm  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Silas,  in  a  low  voice ;  "  I  know  a  deal 
about  that,  —  used  to,  used  to.  But  your  ways  are 
different:  my  country  was  a  good  way  off."  He 
paused  a  few  moments,  and  then  added,  more  de- 
cidedly :  "  But  I  want  to  do  everything  as  can  be 
done  for  the  child.  And  whatever 's  right  for  it  i' 
this  country,  and  you  think  'ull  do  it  good,  I'll 
act  according,  if  you  '11  tell  me." 

"  Well,  then,  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly,  inwardly 
rejoiced,  "  I  '11  ask  Mr.  Macey  to  speak  to  the  par- 
son about  it ;  and  you  must  fix  on  a  name  for  it, 
because  it  must  have  a  name  giv'  it  when  it 's 
christened." 

"My  mother's  name  was  Hephzibah,"  said  Silas, 
"and  my  little  sister  was  named  after  her." 

"  Eh,  that 's  a  hard  name,"  said  Dolly.  "  I  partly 
think  it  is  n't  a  christened  name." 

"  It's  a  Bible  name,"  said  Silas,  old  ideas  recurring. 

"  Then  I  've  no  call  to  speak  again'  it,"  said  Dolly, 
rather  startled  by  Silas's  knowledge  on  this  head; 
"  but  you  see  I  'm  no  scholard,  and  I  'm  slow  at 
catching  the  words.  My  husband  says  I  'm  allays 
like  as  if  I  was  putting  the  haft  for  the  handle,  — 
that 's  what  he  says,  —  for  he  's  very  sharp,  God 
help  him.  But  it  was  awk'ard  calling  your  little 
sister  by  such  a  hard  name,  when  you'd  got  nothing 
big  to  say,  like  —  was  n't  it.  Master  Marner  ?  " 

"  We  called  her  Eppie,"  said  Silas. 

"Well,  if  it  was  noways  wrong  to  shorten  the 
name,  it  'ud  be  a  deal  handier.  And  so  I  '11  go  now. 
Master  Marner,  and  I  '11  speak  about  the  christening 


SILAS  MARNER.  175 

afore  dark ;  and  I  wish  you  the  best  o'  hick,  and 
it 's  my  behef  as  it  '11  come  to  you,  if  you  do  what 's 
right  by  the  orphin  child ;  —  and  there 's  the 
'noculation  to  be  seen  to;  and  as  to  washing  its 
bits  o'  things,  you  need  look  to  nobody  but  me, 
for  I  can  do  'em  wi'  one  hand  when  I  've  got  my 
suds  about.  Eh,  the  blessed  angil !  You  '11  let  me 
bring  my  Aaron  one  0'  these  days,  and  he'll  show 
her  his  little  cart  as  his  father 's  made  for  him,  and 
the  black-and-white  pup  as  he 's  got  a-rearing." 

Baby  tvas  christened,  the  Eector  deciding  that  a 
double  baptism  was  the  lesser  risk  to  incur ;  and  on 
this  occasion  Silas,  making  himself  as  clean  and 
tidy  as  he  could,  appeared  for  the  first  time  within 
the  church,  and  shared  in  the  observances  held 
sacred  by  his  neighbours.  He  was  quite  unable, 
by  means  of  anything  he  heard  or  saw,  to  identify 
the  Eaveloe  religion  with  his  old  faith ;  if  he  could 
at  any  time  in  his  previous  life  have  done  so,  it 
must  have  been  by  the  aid  of  a  strong  feeling  ready 
to  vibrate  with  sympathy,  rather  than  by  a  com- 
parison of  phrases  and  ideas ;  and  now  for  long 
years  that  feeling  had  been  dormant.  He  had  no 
distinct  idea  about  the  baptism  and  the  church- 
going,  except  that  Dolly  had  said  it  was  for  the 
good  of  the  child ;  and  in  this  way,  as  the  weeks 
grew  to  months,  the  child  created  fresh  and  fresh 
links  between  his  life  and  the  lives  from  which  he 
had  hitherto  shrunk  continually  into  narrower  iso- 
lation. Unlike  the  gold  which  needed  nothing, 
and  must  be  worshipped  in  close-locked  solitude, 
—  which  was  hidden  away  from  the  daylight,  was 
deaf  to  the  song  of  birds,  and  started  to  no  human 
tones,  —  Eppie  was  a  creature  of  endless  claims  and 
ever-growing  desires,  seeking  and   loving  sunshine 


176  SILAS  MARNER. 

and  living  sounds  and  living  movements ;  making 
trial  of  everything,  with  trust  in  new  joy,  and 
stirring  the  human  kindness  in  all  eyes  that  looked 
on  her.  The  gold  had  kept  his  thoughts  in  an 
ever-repeated  circle,  leading  to  nothing  beyond 
itself;  but  Eppie  was  an  object  compacted  of 
changes  and  hopes  that  forced  his  thoughts  onward, 
and  carried  them  far  away  from  their  old  eager 
pacing  towards  the  same  blank  limit,  —  carried 
them  away  to  the  ^ew  things  that  would  come 
with  the  coming  years,  when  Eppie  would  have 
learned  to  understand  how  her  father  Silas  cared 
for  her ;  and  made  him  look  for  images  of  that  time 
in  the  ties  and  charities  that  bound  together  the 
families  of  his  neighbours.  The  gold  had  asked 
that  he  should  sit  weaving  longer  and  longer,  deaf- 
ened and  blinded  more  and  more  to  all  things  except 
the  monotony  of  his  loom  and  the  repetition  of  his 
web ;  but  Eppie  called  him  away  from  his  weaving, 
and  made  him  think  all  its  pauses  a  holiday,  re- 
awakening his  senses  with  her  fresh  life,  even  to 
the  old  winter-flies  that  came  crawling  forth  in  the 
early  spring  sunshine,  and  warming  him  into  joy 
because  she  had  joy. 

And  when  the  sunshine  grew  strong  and  lasting, 
so  that  the  buttercups  were  thick  in  the  meadows, 
Silas  might  be  seen  in  the  sunny  mid-day,  or  in 
the  late  afternoon  when  the  shadows  were  length- 
ening under  the  hedgerows,  strolling  out  with 
uncovered  head  to  carry  Eppie  beyond  the  Stone- 
pits  to  where  the  flowers  grew,  till  they  reached 
some  favourite  bank  where  he  could  sit  down,  while 
Eppie  toddled  to  pluck  the  flowers,  and  make  re- 
marks to  the  winged  things  that  murmured  happily 
above  the  bright  petals,  calling  "  Dad-dad's  "  atten- 


SILAS  MARNER.  177 

tion  continually  by  bringing  him  the  flowers.  Then 
she  would  turn  her  ear  to  some  sudden  bird-note, 
and  Silas  learned  to  please  her  by  making  signs  of 
hushed  stillness,  that  they  might  listen  for  the  note 
to  come  again :  so  that  when  it  came,  she  set  up  her 
small  back  and  laughed  with  gurgling  triumph. 
Sitting  on  the  banks  in  this  way,  Silas  began  to 
look  for  the  once  familiar  herbs  again ;  and  as  the 
leaves,  with  their  unchanged  outline  and  markings, 
lay  on  his  palm,  there  was  a  sense  of  crowding 
remembrances  from  which  he  turned  away  timidly, 
taking  refuge  in  Eppie's  little  world,  that  lay  lightly 
on  his  enfeebled  spirit. 

As  the  child's  mind  was  growing  into  knowledge, 
his  mind  was  growing  into  memory ;  as  her  life 
unfolded,  his  soul,  long  stupefied  in  a  cold,  nan'ow 
prison,  was  unfolding  too,  and  trembling  gradually 
into  full  consciousness. 

It  was  an  influence  which  must  gather  force  with 
every  new  year :  the  tones  that  stirred  Silas's  heart 
grew  articulate,  and  called  for  more  distinct  an- 
swers ;  shapes  and  sounds  grew  clearer  for  Eppie's 
eyes  and  ears,  and  there  was  more  that  "Dad-dad  " 
was  imperatively  required  to  notice  and  account  for. 
Also,  by  the  time  Eppie  w-as  three  years  old,  she 
developed  a  fine  capacity  for  mischief,  and  for 
devising  ingenious  ways  of  being  troublesome, 
which  found  much  exercise,  not  only  for  Silas's 
patience,  but  for  his  watchfulness  and  penetration. 
Sorely  was  poor  Silas  puzzled  on  such  occasions  by 
the  incompatible  demands  of  love.  Dolly  Winthrop 
told  him  that  punishment  was  good  for  Eppie,  and 
that,  as  for  rearing  a  child  without  making  it  tingle 
a  little  in  soft  and  safe  places  now  and  then,  it 
was  not  to  be  done. 

12 


178  SILAS  MARNER. 

"  To  be  sure,  there  's  another  thing  you  might  do, 
Master  Marner,"  added  Dolly,  meditatively  :  "  you 
might  shut  her  up  once  i'  the  coal-hole.  That  was 
what  I  did  wi'  Aaron  ;  for  I  was  that  silly  wi'  the 
youngest  lad,  as  I  could  never  bear  to  smack  him. 
Not  as  I  could  find  i'  my  heart  to  let  him  stay  i'  the 
coal-hole  more  nor  a  minute,  but  it  was  enough  to 
colly  him  all  over,  so  as  he  must  be  new  washed 
and  dressed,  and  it  was  as  good  as  a  rod  to  him,  — 
that  was.  But  I  put  it  upo'  your  conscience,  Master 
Marner,  as  there  's  one  of  'em  you  must  choose,  — 
ayther  smacking  or  the  coal-hole,  —  else  she  '11  get 
so  masterful  there  '11  be  no  holding  her." 

Silas  was  impressed  with  the  melancholy  truth  of 
this  last  remark ;  but  his  force  of  mind  failed  before 
the  only  two  penal  methods  open  to  him,  not  only 
because  it  was  painful  to  him  to  hurt  Eppie,  but 
because  he  trembled  at  a  moment's  contention  with 
her,  lest  she  should  love  him  the  less  for  it.  Let 
even  an  affectionate  Goliath  get  himself  tied  to  a 
small  tender  thing,  dreading  to  hurt  it  by  pulling, 
and  dreading  still  more  to  snap  the  cord,  and  which 
of  the  two,  pray,  will  be  master  ?  It  was  clear  that 
Eppie,  with  her  short  toddling  steps,  must  lead 
father  Silas  a  pretty  dance  on  any  fine  morning 
when  circumstances  favoured  mischief. 

For  example.  He  had  wisely  chosen  a  broad  strip 
of  linen  as  a  means  of  fastening  her  to  his  loom 
when  he  was  busy :  it  made  a  broad  belt  round  her 
waist,  and  was  long  enough  to  allow  of  her  reaching 
the  truckle-bed  and  sitting  down  on  it,  but  not  long 
enough  for  her  to  attempt  any  dangerous  climbing. 
One  bright  summer's  morning  Silas  had  been  more 
engrossed  than  usual  in  "  setting  up  "  a  new  piece  of 
work,  an  occasion  on  which  his  scissors  were  in 


SILAS  MARKER.  179 

requisition.  These  scissors,  owing  to  an  especial 
warning  of  Dolly's,  had  been  kept  carefully  out  of 
Eppie's  reach ;  but  the  click  of  them  had  had  a 
peculiar  attraction  for  her  ear,  and  watching  the  re- 
sults of  that  click,  she  had  derived  the  philosophic 
lesson  that  the  same  cause  would  produce  the  same 
effect.  Silas  had  seated  himself  in  his  loom,  and  the 
noise  of  weaving  had  begun  ;  but  he  had  left  liis 
scissors  on  a  ledge  which  Eppie's  arm  was  long 
enough  to  reach ;  and  now,  like  a  small  mouse, 
watching  her  opportunity,  she  stole  quietly  from  her 
corner,  secured  the  scissors,  and  toddled  to  the  bed 
again,  setting  up  her  back  as  a  mode  of  concealing 
the  fact.  She  had  a  distinct  intention  as  to  the  use 
of  the  scissors ;  and  having  cut  the  linen  strip  in  a 
jagged  but  effectual  manner,  in  two  moments  she 
had  run  out  at  the  open  door  where  the  sunshine 
was  inviting  her,  while  poor  Silas  believed  her  to  be 
a  better  child  than  usual.  It  was  not  until  he  hap- 
pened to  need  his  scissors  that  the  terrible  fact 
burst  upon  him  :  Eppie  had  run  out  by  herself,  — 
had  perhaps  fallen  into  the  Stone-pit.  Silas,  shaken 
by  the  worst  fear  that  could  have  befallen  him, 
rushed  out,  calling  "  Eppie  !  "  and  ran  eagerly  about 
the  unenclosed  space,  exploring  the  dry  cavities  into 
which  she  might  have  fallen,  and  then  gazing  with 
questioning  dread  at  the  smooth  red  surface  of  the 
water.  The  cold  drops  stood  on  his  brow.  How 
long  had  she  been  out  ?  There  was  one  hope,  — 
that  she  had  crept  through  the  stile  and  got  into  the 
fields,  where  he  habitually  took  her  to  stroll.  But 
the  grass  was  high  in  the  meadow,  and  there  was  no 
descrying  her,  if  she  were  there,  except  by  a  close 
search  that  would  be  a  trespass  on  Mr.  Osgood's 
crop.     Still,  that  misdemeanour  must  be  committed ; 


i8o  SILAS  MARNER. 

and  poor  Silas,  after  peering  all  round  the  hedgerows, 
traversed  the  grass,  beginning  with  perturbed  vision 
to  see  Eppie  behind  every  group  of  red  sorrel,  and  to 
see  her  moving  always  farther  off  as  he  approached. 
The  meadow  was  searched  in  vain  ;  and  he  got  over 
the  stile  into  the  next  field,  looking  with  dying  hope 
towards  a  small  pond  which  was  now  reduced  to  its 
summer  shallowness,  so  as  to  leave  a  wide  margin 
of  good  adhesive  mud.  Here,  however,  sat  Eppie, 
discoursing  cheerfully  to  her  own  small  boot,  which 
she  was  using  as  a  bucket  to  convey  the  water  into 
a  deep  hoof-mark,  while  her  little  naked  foot  was 
planted  comfortably  on  a  cushion  of  olive-green 
mud.  A  red-headed  calf  was  observing  her  with 
alarmed  doubt  through  the  opposite  hedge. 

Here  was  clearly  a  case  of  aberration  in  a  christ- 
ened child  which  demanded  severe  treatment ;  but 
Silas,  overcome  with  convulsive  joy  at  finding  his 
treasure  again,  could  do  nothing  but  snatch  her  up, 
and  cover  her  with  half-sobbing  kisses.  Tt  was  not 
until  he  had  carried  her  home,  and  had  begun  to 
think  of  the  necessary  washing,  that  he  recollected 
the  need  that  he  should  punish  Eppie,  and  "  make 
her  remember."  The  idea  that  she  might  run  away 
again  and  come  to  harm  gave  him  unusual  resolu- 
tion, and  for  the  first  time  he  determined  to  try  the 
coal-hole,  —  a  small  closet  near  the  hearth. 

"  Naughty,  naughty  Eppie,"  he  suddenly  began, 
holding  her  on  his  knee,  and  pointing  to  her  muddy 
feet  and  clothes,  —  "  naughty  to  cut  with  the  scissors 
and  run  away.  Eppie  must  go  into  the  coal-hole 
for  being  naughty.  Daddy  must  put  her  in  the 
coal-hole." 

He  half  expected  that  this  would  be  shock 
enough,  and  that  Eppie  would  begin  to  cry.     But 


SILAS  MARNER.  i8i 

instead  of  that,  she  began  to  shake  herself  on  his 
knee,  as  if  the  proposition  opened  a  pleasing  novelty. 
Seeing  that  he  must  proceed  to  extremities,  he  put 
her  into  the  coal-hole,  and  held  the  door  closed, 
with  a  trembling  sense  that  he  was  using  a  strong 
measure.  For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  but 
then  came  a  little  cry,  "  Opy,  Opy ! "  and  Silas  let 
•her  out  again,  saying,  "Now  Eppie  'ull  never  be 
naughty  again,  else  she  must  go  in  the  coal-hole,  — 
a  black  naughty  place." 

The  weaving  must  stand  still  a  long  while  this 
morning,  for  now  Eppie  must  be  washed,  and  have 
clean  clothes  on  ;  but  it  was  to  be  hoped  that  this 
punishment  would  have  a-  lasting  eti'ect,  and  save 
time  in  future,  —  though,  perhaps,  it  would  have 
been  better  if  Eppie  had  cried  more. 

In  half  an  hour  she  was  clean  again,  and  Silas 
having  turned  his  back  to  see  what  he  could  do 
with  the  linen  band,  threw  it  down  again,  with  the 
reflection  that  Eppie  would  be  good  without  fasten- 
ing for  the  rest  of  the  morning.  He  turned  round 
again,  and  was  going  to  place  her  in  her  little  chair 
near  the  loom,  when  she  peeped  out  at  him  with 
black  face  and  hands  again,  and  said,  "  Eppie  in  de 
toal-hole ! " 

This  total  failure  of  the  coal-hole  discipline  shook 
Silas's  belief  in  the  efficacy  of  punishment.  "  She  'd 
take  it  all  for  fun,"  he  observed  to  Dolly,  "  if  I 
did  n't  hurt  her,  and  that  I  can't  do,  Mrs.  Winthrop. 
If  she  makes  me  a  bit  o'  trouble,  I  can  bear  it. 
And  she 's  got  no  tricks  but  what  she  '11  grow 
out  of," 

"  Well,  that 's  partly  true.  Master  Marner,"  said 
Dolly,  sympathetically ;  "  and  if  you  can't  bring 
your  mind  to  frighten  her  off  touching  things,  you 


1 82  SILAS  MARNER. 

must  do  what  you  can  to  keep  'em  out  of  her  way. 
That 's  what  I  do  wi'  the  pups  as  the  lads  are  allays 
a-rearing.  They  will  worry  and  gnaw,  —  worry  and 
gnaw  they  will,  if  it  was  one's  Sunday  cap  as  hung 
anywhere  so  as  they  could  drag  it.  They  know  no 
difference,  God  help  'em :  it 's  the  pushing  o'  the 
teeth  as  sets  'em  on,  that 's  what  it  is." 

So  Eppie  was  reared  without  punishment,  the 
burden  of  her  misdeeds  being  borne  vicariously  by 
father  Silas.  The  stone  hut  was  made  a  soft  nest 
for  her,  lined  with  downy  patience  ;  and  also  in  the 
world  that  lay  beyond  the  stone  hut  she  knew 
nothing  of  frowns  and  denials. 

Notwithstanding  the  difficulty  of  carrying  her 
and  his  yarn  or  linen  at  the  same  time,  Silas  took 
her  with  him  in  most  of  his  journeys  to  the  farm- 
houses, unwilling  to  leave  her  behind  at  Dolly 
AVinthrop's,  who  was  always  ready  to  take  care  of 
her;  and  little  curly-headed  Eppie,  the  weaver's 
child,  became  an  object  of  interest  at  several  out- 
lying homesteads,  as  well  as  in  the  village.  Hitherto 
he  had  been  treated  very  much  as  if  he  had  been 
a  useful  gnome  or  brownie,  —  a  queer  and  unac- 
countable creature,  who  must  necessarily  be  looked 
at  with  wondering  curiosity  and  repulsion,  and 
with  whom  one  would  be  glad  to  make  all  greetings 
and  bargains  as  brief  as  possible,  but  who  must  be 
dealt  with  in  a  propitiatory  way,  and  occasionally 
have  a  present  of  pork  or  garden  stuff  to  carry  home 
with  him,  seeing  that  without  him  there  was  no 
getting  the  yarn  woven.  But  now  Silas  met  with 
open  smiling  faces  and  cheerful  questioning,  as  a 
person  whose  satisfactions  and  difhculties  could  be 
understood.  Everywhere  he  must  sit  a  little  and 
talk  about  the  child,  and  words  of  interest  were 


SILAS  MARNER.  183 

always  ready  for  him  :  "  Ah,  Master  Marner,  you  '11 
be  lucky  if  she  takes  the  measles  soon  and  easy ! " 
—  or,  "Wliy,  there  isn't  many  lone  men  'ud  ha' 
been  wishing  to  take  up  with  a  little  un  like  that ; 
but  I  reckon  the  weaving  makes  you  handier  than 
men  as  do  out-door  work,  —  you  're  partly  as  handy 
as  a  woman,  for  weaving  comes  next  to  spinning." 
Elderly  masters  and  mistresses,  seated  observantly 
in  large  kitchen  arm-chairs,  shook  their  heads  over 
the  difficulties  attendant  on  rearing  children,  felt 
Eppie's  round  arms  and  legs,  and  pronounced  them 
remarkably  firm,  and  told  Silas  that  if  she  turned 
out  well  (which,  however,  there  was  no  telling),  it 
would  be  a  fine  thing  for  him  to  have  a  steady  lass 
to  do  for  him  w^hen  he  got  helpless.  Servant  mai- 
dens were  fond  of  carrying  lier  out  to  look  at  the 
hens  and  chickens,  or  to  see  if  any  cherries  could  be 
shaken  do^\^l  in  the  orchard;  and  the  small  boys 
and  girls  approached  her  slowly,  with  cautious 
movement  and  steady  gaze,  like  little  dogs  face  to 
face  with  one  of  their  own  kind,  till  attraction  had 
reached  the  point  at  which  the  soft  lips  were  put 
out  for  a  kiss.  No  child  was  afraid  of  approaching 
Silas  when  Eppie  was  near  him :  there  was  no  re- 
pulsion around  him  now,  either  for  young  or  old ; 
for  the  little  child  had  come  to  link  him  once  more 
with  the  whole  world.  There  was  love  between 
him  and  the  child  that  blent  them  into  one,  and 
there  was  love  between  the  child  and  the  world,  — 
from  men  and  w^omen  with  parental  looks  and  tones, 
to  the  red  lady-bnds  and  the  round  pebbles. 

Silas  began  now  to  think  of  Eaveloe  life  entirely 
in  relation  to  Eppie :  she  must  have  everything  that 
was  a  good  in  Eaveloe  ;  and  he  listened  docilely, 
that  he  might  come  to  understand  better  what  this 


1 84  SILAS  MARNER. 

life  was,  from  which  for  fifteen  years  he  had  stood 
aloof  as  from  a  strange  thing,  wherewith  he  could 
have  no  communion :  as  some  man  who  has  a  pre- 
cious plant  to  which  he  would  give  a  nurturing  home 
in  a  new  soil,  thinks  of  the  rain  and  the  sunshine 
and  all  intiuences  in  relation  to  his  nursling,  and 
asks  industriously  for  all  knowledge  that  will  help 
him  to  satisfy  the  wants  of  the  searching  roots,  or 
to  guard  leaf  and  hud  from  invading  harm.  The 
disposition  to  hoard  had  been  utterly  crushed  at 
the  very  first  by  the  loss  of  his  long-stored  gold : 
the  coins  he  earned  afterwards  seemed  as  irrelevant 
as  stones  brought  to  complete  a  house  suddenly 
buried  by  an  earthquake  ;  the  sense  of  bereavement 
was  too  heavy  upon  him  for  the  old  thrill  of  satis- 
faction to  arise  again  at  the  touch  of  the  newly 
earned  coin.  And  now  something  had  come  to 
replace  his  hoard  which  gave  a  growing  purpose 
to  the  earnings,  drawing  his  hope  and  joy  contin- 
ually onward  beyond  the  money. 

In  old  days  there  were  angels  who  came  and  took 
men  by  the  hand  and  led  them  away  from  the  city 
of  destruction.  We  see  no  white-winged  angels 
now.  But  yet  men  are  led  away  from  threatening 
destruction  :  a  hand  is  put  into  theirs,  which  leads 
them  forth  gently  towards  a  calm  and  bright  land, 
so  that  they  look  no  more  backward  ;  and  the  hand 
may  be  a  little  child's. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

There  was  one  person,  as  you  will  believe,  who 
watched  with  keener  though  more  hidden  interest 
than  any  other,  the  prosperous  growth  of  Eppie 
under  the  weaver's  care.  He  dared  not  do  anything 
that  would  imply  a  stronger  interest  in  a  poor  man's 
adopted  child  than  could  be  expected  from  the 
kindliness  of  the  young  Squire,  when  a  chance  meet- 
ing suggested  a  little  present  to  a  simple  old  fellow 
whom  others  noticed  with  good-will ;  but  he  told 
himself  that  the  time  would  come  when  he  might 
do  something  towards  furthering  the  welfare  of 
his  daughter  without  incurring  suspicion.  Was  he 
very  uneasy  in  tlie  mean  time  at  his  inability  to  give 
his  daughter  her  birthright  ?  I  cannot  say  that  he 
was.  The  child  was  being  taken  care  of,  and  would 
very  likely  be  happy,  as  people  in  humble  stations 
often  were,  —  happier,  perhaps,  than  those  brought 
up  in  luxury. 

That  famous  ring  that  pricked  its  owner  when 
he  forgot  duty  and  followed  desire,  —  I  wonder  if 
it  pricked  very  hard  when  he  set  out  on  the  chase, 
or  whether  it  pricked  but  lightly  then,  and  only 
pierced  to  the  quick  when  the  chase  had  long  been 
ended,  and  hope,  folding  her  wings,  looked  backward 
and  became  regret  ? 

Godfrey  Cass's  cheek  and  eye  were  brighter  than 
ever  now.  He  was  so  undivided  in  his  aims  that 
he  seemed  like  a  man  of  firmness.  No  Dunsey  had 
come  back  :  people  had  made  up  their  minds  that 


i86  SILAS  MARNER. 

he  was  gone  for  a  soldier,  or  gone  "  out  of  the 
country,"  and  no  one  cared  to  be  specific  in  their 
inquiries  on  a  subject  delicate  to  a  respectable 
family.  Godfrey  had  ceased  to  see  the  shadow  of 
Dunsey  across  his  path ;  and  the  path  now  lay 
straight  forward  to  the  accomplishment  of  his  best, 
longest-cherished  wishes.  Everybody  said  Mr.  God- 
frey had  taken  the  right  turn ;  and  it  was  pretty 
clear  what  would  be  the  end  of  things,  for  there 
were  not  many  days  in  the  week  that  he  was  not 
seen  riding  to  the  Warrens.  Godfrey  himself,  when 
he  was  asked  jocosely  if  the  day  had  been  fixed, 
smiled  with  the  pleasant  consciousness  of  a  lover 
who  could  say  "  yes,"  if  he  liked.  He  felt  a  re- 
formed man,  delivered  from  temptation  ;  and  the 
vision  of  his  future  life  seemed  to  him  as  a  promised 
land  for  which  he  had  no  cause  to  fight.  He  saw 
himself  with  all  his  happiness  centred  on  his  own 
hearth,  while  Nancy  would  smile  on  him  as  he 
played  with  the  children. 

And  that  other  child,  not  on  the  hearth,  —  he 
would  not  forget  it;  he  would  see  that  it  was  well 
provided  for.     That  was  a  father's  duty. 


PAKT   n. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

It  was  a  bright  autumn  Sunday,  sixteen  years 
after  Silas  Marner  had  found  his  new  treasure  on 
the  hearth.  The  bells  of  the  old  Eaveloe  church 
were  ringing  the  cheerful  peal  which  told  that  the 
morning  service  was  ended ;  and  out  of  the  arched 
doorway  in  the  tower  came  slowly,  retarded  by 
friendly  greetings  and  questions,  the  richer  parish- 
ioners who  had  chosen  this  bright  Sunday  morn- 
ing as  eligible  for  church-going.  It  was  the  rural 
fashion  of  that  time  for  the  more  important  members 
of  the  congregation  to  depart  first,  while  their  hum- 
bler neighbours  waited  and  looked  on,  stroking  their 
bent  heads  or  dropping  their  courtesies  to  -any  large 
ratepayer  who  turned  to  notice  them. 

Foremost  among  these  advancing  groups  of  well- 
clad  people,  there  are  some  whom  we  shall  recog- 
nize, in  spite  of  Time,  who  has  laid  his  hand  on 
them  all.  The  tall  blond  man  of  forty  is  not  much 
changed  in  feature  from  the  Godfrey  Cass  of  six- 
and-twenty  :  he  is  only  fuller  in  tlesh,  and  has  only 
lost  the  indefinable  look  of  youth,  —  a  loss  which 
is  marked  even  when  the  eye  is  undulled  and  the 
wrinkles  are  not  yet  come.  Perhaps  the  pretty 
woman,  not  much  younger  than  he,  who  is  leaning 
on  his  arm,  is  more  changed  than  her  husband :  the       « 


iS8  SILAS  MARNER. 

lovely  bloom  that  used  to  be  always  on  her  cheek 
now  comes  but  fitfully,  with  the  fresh  mornmg  air 
or  with  some  strong  surprise ;  yet  to  all  who  love 
human  faces  best  for  what  they  tell  of  human  ex- 
perience, Nancy's  beauty  has  a  heightened  interest. 
Often  the  soul  is  ripened  into  fuller  goodness  while 
age  has  spread  an  ugly  film,  so  that  mere  glances 
can  never  divine  the  preciousness  of  the  fruit.  But 
the  years  have  not  been  so  cruel  to  Nancy.  The 
firm  yet  placid  mouth,  the  clear  veracious  glance  of 
the  brown  eyes,  speak  now  of  a  nature  that  has 
been  tested  and  has  kept  its  highest  qualities  ;  and 
even  the  costume,  with  its  dainty  neatness  and 
purity,  has  more  significance  now  the  coquetries  of 
youth  can  have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Godfrey  Cass  (any  higher  title  has 
died  away  from  Eaveloe  lips  since  the  old  Squire 
was  gathered  to  his  fathers  and  his  inheritance  was 
divided)  have  turned  round  to  look  for  the  tall  aged 
man  and  the  plainly  dressed  woman  who  are  a  little 
behind,  —  Nancy  having  observed  that  they  must 
wait  for  "  father  and  Priscilla,"  —  and  now  they  all 
turn  into  a  narrower  path  leading  across  the  church- 
yard to  a  small  gate  opposite  the  Eed  House.  We 
will  not  follow  them  now;  for  may  there  not  be 
some  others  in  this  departing  congregation  whom 
we  should  like  to  see  again,  —  some  of  those  who 
are  not  likely  to  be  handsomely  clad,  and  whom  we 
may  not  recognize  so  easily  as  the  master  and  mis- 
tress of  the  Eed  House  ? 

But  it  is  impossible  to  mistake  Silas  Marner. 
His  large  brown  eyes  seem  to  have  gathered  a 
longer  vision,  as  is  the  way  with  eyes  that  have 
been  short-sighted  in  early  life,  and  they  have  a  less 
vague,  a  more  answering  gaze;  but  in  everything 


SILAS  MARNER.  189 

else  one  sees  signs  of  a  frame  much  enfeebled  by 
the  lapse  of  the  sixteen  years.  The  weaver's  bent 
shoulders  and  white  hair  give  him  almost  the  look 
of  advanced  age,  though  he  is  not  more  than  five- 
and-Hf  ty  ;  but  there  is  the  freshest  blossom  .of  youth 
close  by  his  side,  —  a  blond  dimpled  girl  of  eighteen, 
who  has  vainly  tried  to  chastise  her  curly  auburn 
hair  into  smoothness  under  her  brown  bonnet :  the 
hair  ripples  as  obstinately  as  a  brooklet  under  the 
March  breeze,  and  the  little  ringlets  burst  away 
from  the  restraining  comb  behind  and  show  them- 
selves below  the  bonnet-crown,  Eppie  cannot  help 
being  rather  vexed  about  her  hair,  for  there  is  no 
other  girl  in  Raveloe  who  has  hair  at  all  like  it,  and 
she  thinks  hair  ought  to  be  smooth.  She  does  not 
like  to  be  blameworthy  even  in  small  things  :  you 
see  how  neatly  her  prayer-book  is  folded  in  her 
spotted  handkerchief. 

That  good-looking  young  fellow,  in  a  new  fustian 
suit,  who  walks  behind  her,  is  not  quite  sure  upon 
the  question  of  hair  in  the  abstract,  when  Eppie 
puts  it  to  him,  and  thinks  that  perhaps  straight 
hair  is  the  best  in  general,  but  he  doesn't  want 
Eppie's  hair  to  be  different.  She  surely  di\dnes 
that  there  is  some  one  behind  her  who  is  thinking 
about  her  very  particularly,  and  mustering  courage 
to  come  to  her  side  as  soon  as  they  are  out  in  the 
lane,  else  why  should  she  look  rather  shy,  and  take 
care  not  to  turn  away  her  head  from  her  father  Silas, 
to  whom  she  keeps  murmuring  little  sentences  as 
to  who  was  at  church  and  who  was  not  at  church, 
and  how  pretty  the  red-mountain-ash  is  over  the 
Eectory  wall ! 

"  I  wish  we  had  a  little  garden,  father,  with 
double  daisies  in,  like  Mrs.  Winthrop's,"  said  Eppie, 


ipo  SILAS  MARNER. 

when  they  were  out  in  the  lane;  "only  they  say 
it  'ud  take  a  deal  of  digging  and  bringing  fresh 
soil,  —  and  you  could  n't  do  that,  could  you,  father  ? 
Anyhow,  I  should  n't  like  you  to  do  it,  for  it  'ud  be 
too  hard  work  for  you." 

"  Yes,  I  could  do  it,  child,  if  you  want  a  bit  o' 
garden  :  these  long  evenings,  I  could  work  at  taking 
in  a  little  bit  o'  the  waste,  just  enough  for  a  root  or 
two  o'  flowers  for  you ;  and  again,  i'  the  morning,  I 
could  have  a  turn  wi'  the  spade  before  I  sat  down 
to  the  loom.  Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  before  as 
you  wanted  a  bit  o'  garden  ?  " 

"  1  can  dig  it  for  you.  Master  Marner,"  said  the 
young  man  in  fustian,  who  was  now  by  Eppie's  side, 
entering  into  the  conversation  without  the  trouble 
of  formalities.  "  It  '11  be  play  to  me  after  I  've  done 
my  day's  work,  or  any  odd  bits  o'  time  when  the 
work  's  slack.  And  I  '11  bring  you  some  soil  from 
Mr.  Cass's  garden,  —  he  '11  let  me,  and  willing." 

"  Eh,  Aaron,  my  lad,  are  you  there  ? "  said  Silas  ; 
"  I  was  n't  aware  of  you ;  for  when  Eppie  's  talking 
o'  thmgs,  I  see  nothing  but  what  she  's  a-saying. 
Well,  if  you  could  help  me  with  the  digging,  we 
might  get  her  a  bit  o'  garden  all  the  sooner." 

"  Then,  if  you  think  well  and  good,"  said  Aaron, 
"  I  '11  come  to  the  Stone-pits  this  afternoon,  and 
we'll  settle  what  land's  to  be  taken  in,  and  I'll 
get  up  an  hour  earlier  i'  the  morning,  and  begin 
on  it." 

"But  not  if  you  don't  promise  me  not  to  work 
at  the  hard  digging,  father,"  said  Eppie.  "For  I 
shouldn't  ha'  said  anything  about  it,"  she  added, 
half-bashfully,  half-roguishly,  "  only  Mrs.  Winthrop 
said  as  Aaron  'ud  be  so  good,  and  — " 

"And  you  might  ha'  known  it  without  mother 


SILAS  MAENER.  191 

telling  you,"  said  Aaron.  "And  Master  Marner 
knows  too,  I  hope,  as  I  'm  able  and  willing  to  do 
a  turn  o'  work  for  him,  and  he  won't  do  me  the 
unkindness  to  anyways  take  it  out  o'  my  hands." 

"There,  now,  father,  you  won't  work  in  it  till 
it 's  all  easy,"  said  Eppie,  "  and  you  and  me  can  mark 
out  the  beds,  and  make  holes  and  plant  the  roots. 
It  '11  be  a  deal  livelier  at  the  Stone-pits  when  we  've 
got  some  flowers,  for  I  always  think  the  flowers 
can  see  us  and  know  what  we're  talking  about. 
And  I  '11  have  a  bit  0'  rosemary  and  bergamot  and 
thyme,  because  they  're  so  sweet-smelling ;  but 
there 's  no  lavender  only  in  the  gentlefolks'  gar- 
dens, I  think." 

"  That 's  no  reason  why  you  should  n't  have 
some,"  said  Aaron,  "  for  I  can  bring  you  slips  of 
anything ;  I  'm  forced  to  cut  no  end  of  'em  when 
I  'm  gardening,  and  throw  'em  aw^ay  mostly. 
There 's  a  big  bed  o'  lavender  at  the  Eed  House  : 
the  missis  is  very  fond  of  it." 

"Well,"  said  Silas,  gravely,  "so  as  you  don't 
make  free  for  us,  or  ask  for  anything  as  is  worth 
much  at  the  Eed  House :  for  Mr.  Cass 's  been  so 
good  to  us,  and  built  us  up  the  new  end  o'  the 
cottage,  and  given  us  beds  and  things,  as  I  could  n't 
abide  to  be  imposin'  for  garden-stuff  or  anything 
else." 

"  No,  no,  there 's  no  imposin',"  said  Aaron ; 
"  there 's  never  a  garden  in  all  the  parish  but 
what  there 's  endless  waste  in  it  for  want  o'  some- 
body as  could  use  everything  up.  It 's  what  I 
think  to  myself  sometimes,  as  there  need  nobody 
run  short  o'  victuals  if  the  land  was  made  the 
most  on,  and  there  was  never  a  morsel  but  what 
could  find  its  way  to  a  mouth.     It  sets  one  think- 


192  SILAS  MARNER. 

ing  o'  that,  —  gardening  does.  But  I  must  go  back 
now,  else  mother  'uU  be  in  trouble  as  I  aren't 
there." 

"  Bring  her  with  you  this  afternoon,  Aaron,"  said 
Eppie ;  "  I  should  n't  like  to  fix  about  the  garden, 
and  her  not  know  everything  from  the  first, — 
should  you,  father  ?  " 

"  Ay,  bring  her  if  you  can,  Aaron,"  said  Silas ; 
"  she 's  sure  to  have  a  word  to  say  as  11  help  us  to 
set  things  on  their  right  end." 

Aaron  turned  back  up  the  village,  while  Silas 
and  Eppie  went  on  up  the  lonely  sheltered  lane. 

"  Oh,  daddy ! "  she  began,  when  they  were  in 
privacy,  clasping  and  squeezing  Silas's  arm,  and 
skipping  round  to  give  him  an  energetic  kiss. 
"  My  little  old  daddy  !  I  'm  so  glad.  I  don't  think 
I  shall  want  anything  else  when  we  've  got  a  little 
garden ;  and  I  knew  Aaron  would  dig  it  for  us," 
she  went  on  with  roguish  triumph,  —  "I  knew  that 
very  well." 

"  You  're  a  deep  little  puss,  you  are,"  said  Silas, 
with  the  mild  passive  happiness  of  love-crowned 
age  in  his  face ;  "  but  you  '11  make  yourself  fine 
and  beholden  to  Aaron." 

"  Oh  no,  I  sha'n't,"  said  Eppie,  laughing  and  frisk- 
ing ;  "  he  likes  it." 

"  Come,  come,  let  me  carry  your  prayer-book,  else 
you  '11  be  dropping  it,  jumping  i'  that  way." 

Eppie  was  now  aware  that  her  behaviour  was 
under  observation,  but  it  was  only  the  observation 
of  a  friendly  donkey,  browsing  with  a  log  fastened 
to  his  foot,  —  a  meek  donkey,  not  scornfully  critical 
of  human  trivialities,  but  thankful  to  share  in  them, 
if  possible,  by  getting  his  nose  scratched ;  and  Eppie 
did  not  fail  to  gratify  him  with  her  usual  notice, 


SILAS  MARNER.  193 

though  it  was  attended  with  the  inconvenience  of 
his  following  them,  painfully,  up  to  the  very  door 
of  their  home. 

But  the  sound  of  a  sharp  bark  inside,  as  Eppie 
put  the  key  in  the  door,  modified  the  donkey's 
views,  and  he  limped  away  again  without  bidding. 
The  sharp  bark  was  the  sign  of  an  excited  welcome 
that  was  awaiting  them  from  a  knowing  brown 
terrier,  who,  after  dancing  at  their  legs  in  a  hysteri- 
cal manner,  rushed  with  a  worrying  noise  at  a 
tortoise-shell  kitten  under  the  loom,  and  then 
rushed  back  with  a  sharp  bark  again,  as  much  as 
to  say,  "  I  have  done  my  duty  by  this  feeble  crea- 
ture, you  perceive ; "  while  the  lady-mother  of  the 
kitten  sat  sunning  her  white  bosom  in  the  window, 
and  looked  round  with  a  sleepy  air  of  expecting 
caresses,  though  she  was  not  going  to  take  any 
trouble  for  them. 

The  presence  of  this  happy  animal  life  was  not 
the  only  change  which  had  come  over  the  interior 
of  the  stone  cottage.  There  was  no  bed  now  in 
the  living-room,  and  the  small  space  was  well  filled 
with  decent  furniture,  all  bright  and  clean  enough 
to  satisfy  Dolly  Winthrop's  eye.  The  oaken  table 
and  three-cornered  oaken  chair  were  hardly  what 
was  likely  to  be  seen  in  so  poor  a  cottage:  they 
had  come,  with  the  beds  and  other  things,  from 
the  Eed  House ;  for  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass,  as  every  one 
said  in  the  village,  did  very  kindly  by  the  weaver ; 
and  it  was  nothing  but  right  a  man  should  be 
looked  on  and  helped  by  those  who  could  afford  it, 
when  he  had  brought  up  an  orphan  child,  and  been 
father  and  mother  to  her,  —  and  had  lost  his  money 
too,  so  as  he  had  nothing  but  what  he  worked  for 
week  by  week,  and  when  the  weaving  was  going 

13 


194  SILAS  MARNER. 

down  too,  —  for  there  was  less  and  less  flax  spun, 
—  and  Master  Marner  was  none  so  young.  No- 
body was  jealous  of  the  weaver,  for  he  was  regarded 
as  an  exceptional  person,  whose  claims  on  neigh- 
bourly help  were  not  to  be  matched  in  Kaveloe. 
Any  superstition  that  remained  concerning  him 
had  taken  an  entirely  new  colour ;  and  Mr.  Macey, 
now  a  very  feeble  old  man  of  fourscore-and-six, 
never  seen  except  in  his  chimney-corner  or  sitting 
in  the  sunshine  at  his  door-sill,  was  of  opinion  that 
when  a  man  had  done  what  Silas  had  done  by  an 
orphan  child,  it  was  a  sign  that  his  money  would 
come  to  light  again,  or  leastwise  that  the  robber 
would  be  made  to  answer  for  it,  —  for,  as  Mr. 
Macey  observed  of  himself,  his  faculties  were  as 
strong  as  ever. 

Silas  sat  down  now  and  watched  Eppie  with  a 
satisfied  gaze  as  she  spread  the  clean  cloth,  and  set 
on  it  the  potato-pie,  warmed  up  slowly  in  a  safe 
Sunday  fashion,  by  being  put  into  a  dry  pot  over  a 
slowly  dying  fire,  as  the  best  substitute  for  an  oven. 
For  Silas  wo^^ld  not  consent  to  have  a  grate  and 
oven  added  to  his  conveniences :  he  loved  the  old 
brick  hearth  as  he  had  loved  his  brown  pot,  —  and 
was  it  not  there  when  he  had  found  Eppie  ?  The 
gods  of  the  hearth  exist  for  us  still ;  and  let  all  new 
faith  be  tolerant  of  that  fetichism,  lest  it  bruise  its 
own  roots. 

Silas  ate  his  dinner  more  silently  than  usual, 
soon  laying  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  watching 
half  abstractedly  Eppie's  play  with  Snap  and  the 
cat,  by  which  her  own  dining  was  made  rather  a 
lengthy  business.  Yet  it  was  a  sight  that  might 
well  arrest  wandering  thoughts  :  Eppie,  with  the 
rippling  radiance  of  her  hair  and  the  whiteness  of 


SILAS  MARNER.  195 

her  rounded  chin  and  throat  set  off  by  the  dark-blue 
cotton  gown,  laughing  merrily  as  the  kitten  held  on 
with  her  four  claws  to  one  shoulder,  like  a  design 
for  a  jug-handle,  while  Snap  on  the  right  hand  and 
Puss  on  the  other  put  up  their  paws  towards  a  mor- 
sel which  she  held  out  of  the  reach  of  both,  —  Snap 
occasionally  desisting  in  order  to  remonstrate  with 
the  cat  by  a  cogent  w^orrying  growl  on  the  greedi- 
ness and  futility  of  her  conduct ;  till  Eppie  relented, 
caressed  them  both,  and  divided  the  morsel  be- 
tween them. 

But  at  last  Eppie,  glancing  at  the  clock,  checked 
the  play,  and  said,  "  Oh,  daddy,  you  're  wanting  to  go 
into  the  sunshine  to  smoke  your  pipe.  But  I  must 
clear  away  first,  so  as  the  house  may  be  tidy  when 
godmother  comes.  I  '11  make  haste,  —  I  won't  be 
long." 

Silas  had  taken  to  smoking  a  pipe  daily  during 
the  last  two  years,  having  been  strongly  urged  to  it 
by  the  sages  of  Eaveloe,  as  a  practice  "  good  for 
the  fits  ; "  and  this  advice  was  sanctioned  by  Dr. 
Kimble,  on  the  ground  that  it  was  as  well  to  try  what 
could  do  no  harm,  —  a  principle  which  was  made  to 
answer  for  a  great  deal  of  work  in  that  gentleman's 
medical  practice.  Silas  did  not  highly  enjoy  smok- 
ing, and  often  wondered  how  his  neighbours  could 
be  so  fond  of  it ;  but  a  humble  sort  of  acquiescence 
in  what  was  held  to  be  good  had  become  a  strong 
habit  of  that  new  self  which  had  been  developed  in 
him  since  he  had  found  Eppie  on  his  hearth :  it  had 
been  the  only  clew  his  bewildered  mind  could  hold 
by  in  cherishing  this  young  Hfe  that  had  been  sent 
to  him  out  of  the  darkness  into  which  his  gold  had 
departed.  By  seeking  what  was  needful  for  Eppie, 
by  sharing  the  effect  that  everything  produced  on 


196  SILAS.  MARNER. 

her,  he  had  himself  come  to  appropriate  the  forms 
of  custom  and  behef  which  were  the  mould  of 
Eaveloe  life  ;  and  as,  with  reawakening  sensibilities, 
memory  also  reawakened,  he  had  begun  to  ponder 
over  the  elements  of  his  old  faith,  and  blend  them 
with  his  new  impressions,  till  he  recovered  a  con- 
sciousness of  unity  between  his  past  and  present. 
The  sense  of  presiding  goodness  and  the  human 
trust  which  come  with  all  pure  peace  and  joy,  had 
given  him  a  dim  impression  that  there  had  been 
some  error,  some  mistake,  which  had  thrown  that 
dark  shadow  over  the  days  of  his  best  years ;  and  as 
it  grew  more  and  more  easy  to  him  to  open  his  mind 
to  Dolly  Winthrop,  he  gradually  communicated  to 
her  all  he  could  describe  of  his  early  life.  The  com- 
munication was  necessarily  a  slow  and  difficult 
process,  for  Silas's  meagre  power  of  explanation 
was  not  aided  by  any  readiness  of  interpretation  in 
Dolly,  whose  narrow  outward  experience  gave  her 
no  key  to  strange  customs,  and  made  every  novelty 
a  source  of  wonder  that  arrested  them  at  every  step 
of  the  narrative.  It  was  only  by  fragments,  and  at 
intervals  which  left  Dolly  time  to  revolve  what  she 
had  heard  till  it  acquired  some  familiarity  for  her, 
that  Silas  at  last  arrived  at  the  climax  of  the  sad 
story,  —  the  drawing  of  lots,  and  its  false  testimony 
concerning  him ;  and  this  had  to  be  repeated  in 
several  interviews,  under  new  questions  on  her 
part  as  to  the  nature  of  this  plan  for  detecting  the 
guilty  and  clearing  the  innocent, 

"And  yourn's  the  same  Bible,  you're  sure  o' 
that,  Master  Marner,  —  the  Bible  as  you  brought 
wi'  you  from  that  country,  —  it 's  the  same  as  what 
they  've  got  at  church,  and  what  Eppie  's  a-learning 
to  read  in  ? " 


SILAS  MARNER.  197 

"  Yes,"  said  Silas, "  every  bit  the  same ;  and  there 's 
drawing  0'  lots  in  the  Bible,  mind  you,"  he  added  in 
a  lower  tone. 

"  Oh  dear,  dear,"  said  Dolly  in  a  grieved  voice,  as 
if  she  were  hearing  an  unfavourable  report  of  a  sick 
man's  case.  She  was  silent  for  some  minutes  ;  at 
last  she  said,  — 

"  There 's  wise  folks,  happen,  as  know  how  it  all 
is  ;  the  parson  knows,  I  '11  be  bound  ;  but  it  takes  big 
words  to  tell  them  things,  and  such  as  poor  folks 
can 't  make  much  out  on.  I  can  never  rightly  know 
the  meaning  0'  what  I  hear  at  church,  only  a  bit 
here  and  there,  but  I  know  it 's  good  words,  —  I  do. 
But  what  lies  upo'  your  mind,  —  it 's  this.  Master 
Marner :  as,  if  Them  above  had  done  the  right  thing 
by  you.  They  'd  never  ha'  let  you  be  turned  out  for 
a  wicked  thief  when  you  was  innicent." 

"  Ah ! "  said  Silas,  who  had  now  come  to  under- 
stand Dolly's  phraseology,  "  that  was  what  fell  on 
me  like  as  if  it  had  been  red-hot  iron  ;  because,  you 
see,  there  was  nobody  as  cared  for  me  or  clave  to  me 
above  nor  below.  And  him  as  I  'd  gone  out  and  in 
wi'  for  ten  year  and  more,  since  when  we  was  lads 
and  went  halves,  —  mine  own  familiar  friend  in 
whom  I  trusted,  had  lifted  up  his  heel  again'  me, 
and  worked  to  ruin  me." 

"Eh,  but  he  was  a  bad  un,  —  I  can't  think  as 
there  's  another  such,"  said  Dolly.  "  But  I  'm  o'er- 
come.  Master  Marner ;  I  'm  like  as  if  I  'd  waked  and 
did  n't  know  whether  it  was  night  or  morning.  I 
feel  somehow  as  sure  as  I  do  when  I  've  laid  some- 
thing up  though  I  can't  justly  put  my  hand  on  it, 
as  there  was  a  rights  in  what  happened  to  you,  if 
one  could  but  make  it  out ;  and  you  'd  no  call  to 
lose  heart  as  you  did.     But  we  '11  talk  on  it  again  ; 


198  SILAS  MARKER. 

for  sometimes  things  come  into  my  head  when  I  'm 
leeching  or  poulticing,  or  such,  as  I  could  never 
think  on  when  I  was  sitting  still." 

Dolly  was  too  useful  a  woman  not  to  have  many 
opportunities  of  illumination  of  the  kind  she  alluded 
to,  and  she  was  not  long  before  she  recurred  to  the 
subject. 

"  Master  Marner,"  she  said,  one  day  that  she  came 
to  bring  home  Eppie's  washing,  "  I  've  been  sore 
puzzled  for  a  good  bit  wi'  that  trouble  o'  yourn  and 
the  drawing  o'  lots  ;  and  it  got  twisted  back  'ards  and 
for  'ards,  as  I  did  n't  know  which  end  to  lay  hold 
on.  But  it  come  to  me  all  clear  like,  that  night  when 
I  was  sitting  up  wi'  poor  Bessy  Fawkes,  as  is  dead 
and  left  her  children  behind,  God  help  'em,  —  it  come 
to  me  as  clear  as  daylight ;  but  whether  I  've  got  hold 
on  it  now,  or  can  anyways  bring  it  to  my  tongue's 
end,  that  I  don't  know.  For  I  've  often  a  deal  inside 
me  as  '11  never  come  out ;  and  for  what  you  talk  o' 
your  folks  in  your  old  country  niver  saying  prayers 
by  heart  nor  saying  'em  out  of  a  book,  they  must  be 
wonderful  cliver ;  for  if  I  did  n  't  know  '  Our  Father,' 
and  little  bits  o'  good  words  as  I  can  carry  out  o' 
church  wi'  me,  I  might  down  o'  my  knees  every  night, 
but  nothing  could  I  say." 

"  But  you  can  mostly  say  something  as  I  can  make 
sense  on,  Mrs.  Winthrop,"  said  Silas. 

"  Well,  then,  Master  Marner,  it  come  to  me  sum- 
mat  like  this  :  I  can  make  nothing  o'  the  drawing  o' 
lots  and  the  answer  coming  wrong ;  it  'ud  mayhap 
take  the  parson  to  tell  that,  and  he  could  only  tell 
us  i'  big  words.  But  what  come  to  me  as  clear  as 
the  daylight,  it  was  when  I  was  troubling  over  poor 
Bessie  Fawkes,  and  it  allays  comes  into  my  head 
when  I  'm  sorry  for  folks,  and  feel  as  I  can't  do  a 


SILAS  MARKER.  199 

power  to  help  'em,  not  if  I  was  to  get  up  i*  the  middle 
0'  the  night,  —  it  comes  into  my  head  as  Them  above 
has  got  a  deal  tenderer  heart  nor  what  I  've  got,  — 
for  I  can't  be  anyways  better  nor  Them  as  made  me ; 
and  if  anything  looks  hard  to  me,  it 's  because  there 's 
things  I  don't  know  on ;  and  for  the  matter  0'  that, 
there  may  be  plenty  0'  things  I  don't  know  on,  for 
it 's  little  as  I  know,  —  that  it  is.  And  so,  while  I 
was  tliinking  0'  that,  you  come  into  my  mind,  Master 
Marner,  and  it  all  come  pouring  in :  if  J  felt  i'  my 
inside  what  was  the  right  and  just  thing  by  you,  and 
them  as  prayed  and  drawed  the  lots,  all  but  that 
wicked  un,  if  they  'd  ha'  done  the  right  thmg  by  you 
if  they  could,  is  n  't  there  Them  as  was  at  the  making 
on  us,  and  knows  better  and  has  a  better  will  ?  And 
that 's  all  as  ever  I  can  be  sure  on,  and  everything 
else  is  a  big  puzzle  to  me  when  I  think  on  it.  For 
there  was  the  fever  come  and  took  off  them  as  were 
full-growed,  and  left  the  helpless  children  ;  and 
there  's  the  breaking  o'  limbs  ;  and  them  as  'ud  do  , 
right  and  be  sober  have  to  suffer  by  them  as  are 
contrairy,  —  eh,  there  's  trouble  i'  this  world,  and 
there's  tilings  as  we  can  niver  make  out  the  rights 
on.  And  all  as  we  've  got  to  do  is  to  trusten,  Master 
Marner,  —  to  do  the  right  thing  as  fur  as  we  know, 
and  to  trusten.  For  if  us  as  knows  so  little  can  see 
a  bit  o'  good  and  rights,  we  may  be  sure  as  there 's  a 
good  and  a  rights  bigger  nor  what  we  can  know,  —  I 
feel  it  i'  my  own  inside  as  it  must  be  so.  And  if 
you  could  but  ha'  gone  on  trustening,  Master  Marner, 
you  would  n  't  ha'  run  away  from  your  fellow-creaturs 
and  been  so  lone." 

"  Ah,  but  that  'ud  ha'  been  hard,"  said  Silas,  in  an 
undertone ;  "  it  'ud  ha'  been  hard  to  trusten  then." 

"  And  so  it  ^vould,"  said  Dolly,  almost  with  com- 


200  SILAS  MARNER. 

punction :  "  them  things  are  easier  said  nor  done ; 
and  I'm  partly  ashamed  o'  talking." 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  Silas,  "  you  're  i'  the  right,  Mrs. 
Winthrop,  —  you  're  i'  the  right.  There 's  good  i' 
this  world,  —  I  've  a  feeling  o'  that  now  ;  and  it 
makes  a  man  feel  as  there's  a  good  more  nor  he 
can  see,  i'  spite  o'  the  trouble  and  the  wickedness. 
That  drawing  o'  the  lots  is  dark  ;  but  the  child 
was  sent  to  me :  there 's  dealings  with  us,  —  there 's 
dealings." 

This  dialogue  took  place  in  Eppie's  earlier  years, 
when  Silas  had  to  part  with  her  for  two  hours 
every  day,  that  she  might  learn  to  read  at  the 
dame  school,  after  he  had  vainly  tried  himself  to 
guide  her  in  that  first  step  to  learning.  Now  that 
she  was  grown  up,  Silas  had  often  been  led,  in 
those  moments  of  quiet  outpouring  which  come  to 
people  who  live  together  in  perfect  love,  to  talk 
with  her  too  of  the  past,  and  how  and  why  he  had 
lived  a  lonely  man  until  she  had  been  sent  to  him. 
For  it  would  have  been  impossible  for  him  to  hide 
from  Eppie  that  she  was  not  his  own  child :  even 
if  the  most  delicate  reticence  on  the  point  could 
have  been  expected  from  Eaveloe  gossips  in  her 
presence,  her  own  questions  about  her  mother  could 
not  have  been  parried,  as  she  grew  up,  without 
that  complete  shrouding  of  the  past  which  would 
have  made  a  painful  barrier  between  their  minds. 
So  Eppie  had  long  known  how  her  mother  had  died 
on  the  snowy  ground,  and  how  she  herself  had  been 
found  on  the  hearth  by  father  Silas,  who  had  taken 
her  golden  curls  for  his  lost  guineas  brought  back 
to  him.  The  tender  and  peculiar  love  with  which 
Silas  had  reared  her  in  almost  inseparable  com- 
panionship with  himself,  aided  by  the  seclusion  of 


SILAS  MARNER.  201 

their  dwelling,  had  preserved  her  from  the  lowering 
influences  of  the  village  talk  and  habits,  and  had  kept 
her  mind  in  that  freshness  w^hich  is  sometimes  falsely- 
supposed  to  be  an  invariable  attribute  of  rusticity. 
Perfect  love  has  a  breath  of  poetry  which  can  exalt 
the  relations  of  the  least-instructed  human  beings ; 
and  tliis  breath  of  poetry  had  surrounded  Eppie 
from  the  time  when  she  had  followed  the  bright 
gleam  that  beckoned  her  to  Silas's  hearth ;  so  that 
it  is  not  surprising  if,  in  other  things  besides  her 
delicate  prettiness,  she  was  not  quite  a  common 
\'illage  maiden,  but  had  a  touch  of  refinement  and 
fer\'0iir  which  came  from  no  other  teaching  than 
that  of  tenderly  nurtured  unvitiated  feeling.  She 
was  too  childish  and  simple  for  her  imagination  to 
rove  into  questions  about  her  unknown  father ;  for 
a  long  while  it  did  not  even  occur  to  her  that  she 
must  have  had  a  father ;  and  the  first  time  that  the 
idea  of  her  mother  having  had  a  husband  presented 
itself  to  her,  was  when  Silas  showed  her  the  wed- 
ding-ring which  had  been  taken  from  the  wasted 
finger,  and  had  been  carefully  preserved  by  him  in 
a  little  lacquered  box  shaped  like  a  shoe.  He  de- 
livered this  box  into  Eppie's  charge  when  she  had 
grown  up,  and  she  often  opened  it  to  look  at  the 
ring ;  but  still  she  thought  hardly  at  all  about  the 
father  of  whom  it  was  the  symbol.  Had  she  not  a 
father  very  close  to  her,  who  loved  her  l^etter  than 
any  real  fathers  in  the  village  seemed  to  love  their 
daughters  ?  On  the  contrary,  who  her  mother  was, 
and  how  she  came  to  die  in  that  forlornness,  were 
questions  that  often  pressed  on  Eppie's  mind.  Her 
knowledge  of  Mrs.  Winthrop,  who  was  her  nearest 
friend  next  to  Silas,  made  her  feel  that  a  mother 
must   be  very  precious;   and   she   had   again   and 


202  SILAS  MARNER. 

again  asked  Silas  to  tell  her  how  her  mother  looked, 
whom  she  was  like,  and  how  he  had  found  her 
against  the  furze  bush,  led  towards  it  by  the  little 
footsteps  and  the  outstretched  arms.  The  furze 
bush  was  there  stilj ;  and  this  afternoon,  when 
Eppie  came  out  with  Silas  into  the  sunshine,  it  was 
the  first  object  that  arrested  her  eyes  and  thoughts. 

"  Father,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  gentle  gravity, 
which  sometimes  came  like  a  sadder,  slower  ca- 
dence across  her  playfulness,  "  we  shall  take  the 
furze  bush  into  the  garden ;  it  '11  come  into  the 
corner,  and  just  against  it  I  '11  put  snowdrops  and 
crocuses,  'cause  Aaron  says  they  won't  die  out, 
but  '11  always  get  more  and  more." 

"  Ah,  child,"  said  Silas,  always  ready  to  talk 
when  he  had  his  pipe  in  his  hand,  apparently  en- 
joying the  pauses  more  than  the  puffs,  "  it  would  n't 
do  to  leave  out  the  furze  bush ;  and  there  's  noth- 
ing prettier  to  my  thinking,  when  it 's  yallow  with 
flowers.  But  it 's  just  come  into  my  head  what 
we  're  to  do  for  a  fence,  —  mayhap  Aaron  can  help 
us  to  a  thought ;  but  a  fence  we  must  have,  else 
the  donkeys  and  things  'ull  come  and  trample 
everything  down.  And  fencing's  hard  to  be  got 
at,  by  what  I  can  make  out." 

"  Oh,  I  '11  tell  you,  daddy,"  said  Eppie,  clasping 
her  hands  suddenly,  after  a  minute's  thought. 
"  There 's  lots  o'  loose  stones  about,  some  of  'era 
not  big,  and  we  might  lay  'em  atop  of  one  another, 
and  make  a  wall.  You  and  me  could  carry  the 
smallest,  and  Aaron  'ud  carry  the  rest,  —  I  know 
he  would." 

"  Eh,  my  precious  un,"  said  Silas,  "  there  is  n't 
enough  stones  to  go  all  round ;  and  as  for  you 
carrying,  why,  wi'  your  little  arms   you  couldn't 


SILAS  MARXER.  203 

carry  a  stone  no  bigger  than  a  turnip.  You're 
dillicate  made,  my  dear,"  he  added,  with  a  tender 
intonation,  —  "  that 's  what  Mrs.  Winthrop  says." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  stronger  than  you  think,  daddy,"  said 
Eppie ;  "  and  if  there  was  n't  stones  enough  to  go 
all  round,  why,  they  '11  go  part  o'  the  way,  and 
then  it  '11  be  easier  to  get  sticks  and  things  for 
the  rest.  See  here,  round  the  big  pit,  what  a 
many  stones  ! " 

She  skipped  forward  to  the  pit,  meaning  to  lift 
one  of  the  stones  and  exhibit  her  strength,  but  she 
started  back  in  surprise. 

"  Oh,  father,  just  come  and  look  here,"  she  ex- 
claimed, — "  come  and  see  how  the  water 's  gone 
down  since  yesterday.  Why,  yesterday  the  pit  was 
ever  so  full ! " 

"  Well,  to  be  sure,"  said  Silas,  coming  to  her 
side.  "  AMiy,  that 's  the  draining  they  've  begun  on, 
since  harvest,  i'  Mr.  Osgood's  fields,  I  reckon.  The 
foreman  said  to  me  the  other  day,  when  I  passed 
by  'em,  'Master  Marner,'  he  said,  '  I  should  n't  won- 
der if  we  lay  your  bit  o'  waste  as  dry  as  a  bone.' 
It  was  ]Mr.  Godfrey  Cass,  he  said,  had  gone  into 
the  draining :  he  'd  been  taking  these  fields  o'  Mr. 
Osgood." 

"  How  odd  it  '11  seem  to  have  the  old  pit  dried 
up  ! "  said  Eppie,  turning  away,  and  stooping  to 
lift  rather  a  large  stone.  "  See,  daddy,  I  can  carry 
this  quite  well,"  she  said,  going  along  with  much 
energy  for  a  few  steps,  but  presently  letting  it 
fall. 

"  Ah,  you  're  fine  and  strong,  are  n't  you  ? "  said 
Silas,  while  Eppie  shook  her  aching  arms  and 
laughed.  "  Come,  come,  let  us  go  and  sit  down 
on  the  bank  against   the  stile  there,  and   have  no 


204  SILAS  MARNER. 

more  lifting.  You  might  hurt  yourself,  child. 
You  'd  need  have  somebody  to  work  for  you,  — 
and  my  arm  is  n't  over  strong." 

Silas  uttered  the  last  sentence  slowly,  as  if  it 
implied  more  than  met  the  ear ;  and  Eppie,  when 
they  sat  down  on  the  bank,  nestled  close  to  his 
side,  and,  taking  hold  caressingly  of  the  arm  that 
was  not  over  strong,  held  it  on  her  lap,  while  Silas 
puffed  again  dutifully  at  the  pipe,  which  occupied 
his  other  arm.  An  ash  in  the  hedgerow  behind 
made  a  fretted  screen  from  the  sun,  and  threw 
happy  playful  shadows  all  about  them. 

"  Father,"  said  Eppie,  very  gently,  after  they  had 
been  sitting  in  silence  a  little  while,  "  if  I  was  to 
be  married,  ought  I  to  be  married  with  my  mother's 
ring  ? " 

Silas  gave  an  almost  imperceptible  start,  though 
the  question  fell  in  with  the  undercurrent  of 
thought  in  his  own  mind,  and  then  said,  in  a  sub- 
dued tone,  "  Why,  Eppie,  have  you  been  a-thinking 
on  it  ? " 

"  Only  this  last  week,  father,"  said  Eppie,  ingenu- 
ously, "  since  Aaron  talked  to  me  about  it." 

"  And  what  did  he  say  ? "  said  Silas,  still  in  the 
same  subdued  way,  as  if  he  were  anxious  lest  he 
should  fall  into  the  slightest  tone  that  was  not  for 
Eppie's  good. 

"He  said  he  should  like  to  be  married,  because 
he  was  a-going  in  four-and-twenty,  and  had  got  a 
deal  of  gardening  work,  now  Mr.  Mott  's  given  up  ; 
and  he  goes  twice  a  week  regular  to  Mr.  Cass  's,  and 
once  to  Mr.  Osgood's,  and  they  're  going  to  take 
him  on  at  the  Eectory." 

"  And  who  is  it  as  he 's  wanting  to  marry  ?  "  said 
Silas,  with  rather  a  sad  smile. 


SILAS  MARNER.  205 

"  Why,  me,  to  be  sure,  daddy,"  said  Eppie,  with 
dimpling  laughter,  kissing  her  father's  cheek  ;  "  as 
if  he  'd  want  to  marry  anybody  else  I  " 

"  And  you  mean  to  have  him,  do  you  ?  "  said  Silas. 

"  Yes,  some  time,"  said  Eppie,  "  I  don't  know 
when.  Everybody 's  married  some  time,  Aaron  says. 
But  I  told  him  that  was  n't  true ;  for,  I  said,  look 
at  father,  —  he  's  never  been  married." 

"  iSTo,  child,"  said  Silas,  "  your  father  was  a  lone 
man  till  you  was  sent  to  him." 

"  But  you  '11  never  be  lone  again,  father,"  said 
Eppie,  tenderly.  "  That  was  what  Aaron  said,  — 
'  I  could  never  think  0'  taking  you  away  from  Mas- 
ter Marner,  Eppie.'  And  I  said,  'It  'ud  be  no  use 
if  you  did,  Aaron.'  And  he  wants  us  all  to  live 
together,  so  as  you  need  n't  work  a  bit,  father,  only 
what 's  for  your  own  pleasure  ;  and  he  'd  be  as  good 
as  a  son  to  you,  —  that  was  what  he  said." 

"  And  should  you  like  that,  Eppie  ? "  said  Silas, 
looking  at  her. 

"  I  should  n't  mind  it,  father,"  said  Eppie,  quite 
simply.  "  And  I  should  like  things  to  be  so  as  you 
need  n't  work  much.  But  if  it  was  n't  for  that,  I  'd 
sooner  things  did  n't  change.  I  'm  very  happy :  I 
like  Aaron  to  be  fond  of  me,  and  come  and  see  us 
often,  and  behave  pretty  to  you,  —  he  always  does 
behave  pretty  to  you,  does  n't  he,  father  ? " 

"Yes,  child,  nobody  could  behave  better,"  said 
Silas,  emphatically.     "  He  's  his  mother's  lad." 

"  But  I  don't  want  any  change,"  said  Eppie.  "  I 
should  like  to  go  on  a  long,  long  while,  just  as  we 
are.  Only  Aaron  does  want  a  change ;  and  he 
made  me  cry  a  bit,  —  only  a  bit,  —  because  he  said 
I  did  n't  care  for  him  ;  for  if  I  cared  for  him  I  should 
want  us  to  be  married,  as  he  did." 


2o6  SILAS  MAENER. 

"  Eh,  my  blessed  child,"  said  Silas,  laying  down 
his  pipe  as  if  it  weve  useless  to  pretend  to  smoke 
any  longer,  "  you  're  o'er  young  to  be  married. 
We  '11  ask  Mrs.  Winthrop,  —  we  '11  ask  Aaron's 
mother  what  she  thinks :  if  there  's  a  right  thing 
to  do,  she  '11  come  at  it.  But  there 's  this  to  be 
thought  on,  Eppie :  things  will  change,  whether 
we  like  it  or  no ;  things  won't  go  on  for  a  long 
while  just  as  they  are  and  no  difference.  I  shall 
get  older  and  helplesser,  and  be  a  burden  on  you, 
belike  if  I  don't  go  away  from  you  altogether.  Not 
as  I  mean  you  'd  think  me  a  burden,  —  I  know  you 
would  n't,  —  but  it  'ud  be  hard  upon  you  ;  and  when 
I  look  for'ard  to  that,  I  like  to  think  as  you  'd  have 
somebody  else  besides  me,  —  somebody  young  and 
strong,  as  '11  outlast  your  own  life,  and  take  care 
on  you  to  the  end."  Silas  paused,  and,  resting  his 
wrists  on  his  knees,  lifted  his  hands  up  and  down 
meditatively  as  he  looked  on  the  ground. 

"  Then,  would  you  like  me  to  be  married,  father  ? " 
said  Eppie,  with  a  little  trembling  in  her  voice. 

"  I  '11  not  be  the  man  to  say  no,  Eppie,"  said 
Silas,  emphatically ;  "  but  we  '11  ask  your  godmother. 
She'll  wish  the  right  thing  by  you  and  her  son 
too." 

"  There  they  come,  then,"  said  Eppie.  "  Let  us 
go  and  meet  'em.  Oh  the  pipe !  won't  you  have 
it  lit  again,  father  ? "  said  Eppie,  lifting  that  medi- 
cinal appliance  from  the  ground. 

"  Nay,  child,"  said  Silas,  "  I  've  done  enough  for 
to-day.  I  think,  mayhap,  a  little  of  it  does  me 
more  good  than  so  much  at  once." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

While  Silas  and  Eppie  were  seated  on  the  bank 
discoursing  in  the  fleckered  shade  of  the  ash-tree, 
Miss  Priscilla  Lammeter  was  resisting  her  sister's 
arguments  that  it  would  be  better  to  take  tea  at 
the  Eed  House,  and  let  her  father  have  a  long 
nap,  than  drive  home  to  the  Warrens  so  soon 
after  dinner.  The  family  party  (of  four  only) 
were  seated  round  the  table  in  the  dark  wain- 
scoted parlour,  with  the  Sunday  dessert  before 
them,  of  fresh  filberts,  apples,  and  pears,  duly 
ornamented  with  leaves  by  Nancy's  own  hand  be- 
fore the  bells  had  rung  for  church. 

A  great  change  has  come  over  the  dark  wain- 
scoted parlour  since  we  saw  it  in  Godfrey's  bache- 
lor days,  and  under  the  wifeless  reign  of  the  old 
Squire.  Now  all  is  polish,  on  which  no  yester- 
day's dust  is  ever  allowed  to  rest,  from  the  yard's 
width  of  oaken  boards  round  the  carpet,  to  the 
old  Squire's  gun  and  whips  and  walking-sticks, 
ranged  on  the  stag's  antlers  above  the  mantelpiece. 
All  other  signs  of  sporting  and  outdoor  occupa- 
tion Nancy  has  removed  to  another  room ;  but  she 
has  brought  into  the  Eed  House  the  habit  of  filial 
reverence,  and  preserves  sacredly  in  a  place  of 
honour  these  relics  of  her  husband's  departed  father. 
The  tankards  are  on  the  side-table  still,  but  the 
bossed  silver  is  undimmed  by  handling,  and  there 
are  no  dregs  to  send  forth  unpleasant  suggestions : 
the  only  prevailing   scent  is  of  the  lavender  and 


2o8  SILAS  MARNER. 

rose-leaves  that  fill  the  vases  of  Derbyshire  spar. 
All  is  purity  and  order  in  this  once  dreary  room, 
for,  fifteen  years  ago,  it  was  entered  by  a  new 
presiding  spirit. 

"  Now,  father,"  said  Nancy,  "  is  there  any  call 
for  you  to  go  home  to  tea  ?  May  n't  you  just  as 
well  stay  with  us  ?  —  such  a  beautiful  evening  as 
it's  likely  to  be." 

The  old  gentleman  had  been  talking  with  Godfrey 
about  the  increasing  poor-rate  and  the  ruinous 
times,  and  had  not  heard  the  dialogue  between  his 
daughters. 

"  My  dear,  you  must  ask  Priscilla,"  he  said,  in 
the  once  firm  voice,  now  become  rather  broken. 
"She  manages  me  and  the  farm  too." 

"And  reason  good  as  I  should  manage  you, 
father,"  said  Priscilla,  "  else  you  'd  be  giving  your- 
self your  death  with  rheumatism.  And  as  for  the 
farm,  if  anything  turns  out  wrong,  as  it  can't  but 
do  in  these  times,  there's  nothing  kills  a  man  so 
soon  as  having  nobody  to  find  fault  with  but  him- 
self. It 's  a  deal  the  best  way  o'  being  master, 
to  let  somebody  else  do  the  ordering,  and  keep  the 
blaming  in  your  own  hands.  It  'ud  save  many  a 
man  a  stroke,  /  believe." 

"  Well,  well,  my  dear,"  said  her  father,  with  a 
quiet  laugh,  "  I  did  n't  say  you  don't  manage  for 
everybody's  good." 

"  Then  manage  so  as  you  may  stay  tea,  Priscilla," 
said  Nancy,  putting  her  hand  on  her  sister's  arm 
affectionately.  "  Come  now ;  and  we  '11  go  round 
the  garden  while  father  has  his  nap." 

"  My  dear  child,  he  '11  have  a  beautiful  nap  in 
the  gig,  for  I  shall  drive.  And  as  for  staying  tea, 
I  can't  hear  of  it ;  for  there  's  this  dairymaid,  now 


SILAS   MARNER.  209 

she  knows  she  's  to  be  married,  turned  Michaelmas, 
she  'd  as  lief  pour  the  new  milk  into  the  pig-trough 
as  into  the  pans.  That 's  the  way  with  'em  all : 
it 's  as  if  they  thought  the  world  'ud  be  new-made 
because  they  're  to  be  married.  So  come  and  let 
me  put  my  bonnet  on,  and  there  '11  be  time  for  us 
to  walk  round  the  garden  while  the  horse  is  being 
put  in." 

When  the  sisters  were  treading  the  neatly  swept 
garden-walks,  between  the  bright  turf  that  con- 
trasted pleasantly  with  the  dark  cones  and  arches 
and  wall-like  hedges  of  yew,  Priscilla  said, — 

"  I  'm  as  glad  as  anything  at  your  husband's 
making  that  exchange  0'  land  with  cousin  Osgood, 
and  beginning  the  dairying.  It 's  a  thousand  pities 
you  did  n't  do  it  before ;  for  it  '11  give  you  some- 
thing to  fill  your  mind.  There 's  nothing  like  a 
dairy  if  folks  want  a  bit  o'  worrit  to  make  the  days 
pass.  For  as  for  rubbing  furniture,  when  you  can 
once  see  your  face  in  a  table  there 's  nothing  else 
to  look  for ;  but  there  's  always  something  fresh 
with  the  dairy ;  for  even  in  the  depths  o'  winter 
there  's  some  pleasure  in  conquering  the  butter, 
and  making  it  come  whether  or  no.  My  dear," 
added  Priscilla,  pressing  her  sister's  hand  affection- 
ately as  they  walked  side  by  side,  "  you  11  never  be 
low  when  you  've  got  a  dairy." 

"Ah,  Priscilla,"  said  Nancy,  returning  the  pres- 
sure with  a  grateful  glance  of  her  clear  eyes,  "  but 
it  won't  make  up  to  Godfrey :  a  dairy  's  not  so 
much  to  a  man.  And  it 's  only  what  he  cares  for 
that  ever  makes  me  low.  I  'm  contented  with  the 
blessings  we  have,  if  he  could  be  contented." 

"It  drives  me  past  patience,"  said  Priscilla, 
impetuously,    "that    way    o'    the    men,  —  always 

14 


2IO  SILAS  MARNER. 

wanting  and  wanting,  and  never  easy  with  what 
they  've  got :  they  can't  sit  comfortable  in  their 
chairs  when  they  've  neither  ache  nor  pain,  but 
either  they  must  stick  a  pipe  in  their  mouths, 
to  make  'em  better  than  well,  or  else  tliey  must 
be  swallowing  something  strong,  though  they  're 
forced  to  make  haste  before  the  next  meal  comes 
in.  But  joyful  be  it  spoken,  our  father  was  never 
that  sort  o'  man.  And  if  it  had  pleased  God  to 
make  you  ugly,  like  me,  so  as  the  men  would  n't 
ha'  run  after  you,  we  might  have  kept  to  our  own 
family,  and  had  nothing  to  do  with  folks  as  have 
got  uneasy  blood  in  their  veins." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  so,  Priscilla,"  said  Nancy,  repent- 
ing that  she  had  called  forth  this  outburst ; 
"  nobody  has  any  occasion  to  find  fault  with  God- 
frey. It 's  natural  he  should  be  disappointed  at 
not  having  any  children :  every  man  likes  to  have 
somebody  to  work  for  and  lay  by  for,  and  he  always 
counted  so  on  making  a  fuss  with  'em  when  they 
were  little.  There  's  many  another  man  'ud  hanker 
more  than  he  does.     He  's  the  best  of  husbands." 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  said  Priscilla,  smiling  sarcasti- 
cally, "  I  know  the  way  o'  wives  ;  they  set  one  on  to 
abuse  their  husbands,  and  then  they  turn  round  on 
one  and  praise  'em  as  if  they  wanted  to  sell  'em. 
But  father  '11  be  waiting  for  me ;  we  must  turn 
now." 

The  large  gig  with  the  steady  old  gray  was  at 
the  front  door,  and  Mr.  Lammeter  was  already  on 
the  stone  steps,  passing  the  time  in  recalling  to 
Godfrey  what  very  fine  points  Speckle  had  when 
his  master  used  to  ride  him. 

"  I  always  would  have  a  good  horse,  you  know," 
said   the   old  gentleman,  not   liking   that   spirited 


SILAS  MARNER.  211 

time  to  be  quite  effaced  from  tlie  memory  of  his 
juniors. 

"  Mind  you  bring  Nancy  to  the  "Warrens  before 
the  week  's  out,  Mr.  Cass,"  was  Priscilla's  parting 
injunction,  as  she  took  the  reins,  and  shook  them 
gently,  by  way  of  friendly  incitement  to  Speckle. 

"  I  shall  just  take  a  turn  to  the  fields  against  the 
Stone-pits,  Nancy,  and  look  at  the  draining,"  said 
Godfrey. 

"  You  '11  be  in  again  by  tea-time,  dear  ?  " 
"  Oh  yes,  I  shall  be  back  in  an  hour." 
It  was  Godfrey's  custom  on  a  Sunday  afternoon 
to  do  a  little  contemplative  farming  in  a  leisurely 
walk.  Nancy  seldom  accompanied  him ;  for  the 
women  of  her  generation  —  unless,  like  Priscilla, 
they  took  to  outdoor  management  —  were  not 
given  to  much  walking  beyond  their  own  house 
and  garden,  finding  sufficient  exercise  in  domestic 
duties.  So,  when  Priscilla  was  not  with  her,  she 
usually  sat  with  Mant's  Bible  before  her,  and  after 
following  the  text  with  her  eyes  for  a  little  while, 
she  would  gradually  permit  them  to  wander  as  her 
thoughts  had  already  insisted  on  wandering. 

But  Nancy's  Sunday  thoughts  were  rarely  quite 
out  of  keeping  with  the  devout  and  reverential 
intention  implied  by  the  book  spread  open  before 
her.  She  was  not  theologically  instructed  enough 
to  discern  very  clearly  the  relation  between  the 
sacred  documents  of  the  past  which  she  opened 
without  method,  and  her  own  obscure,  simple  life ; 
but  the  spirit  of  rectitude,  and  the  sense  of  respon- 
sibility for  the  effect  of  her  conduct  on  others, 
which  were  strong  elements  in  Nancy's  character, 
had  made  it  a  habit  with  her  to  scrutinize  her  past 
feelings  and  actions  with  self-questioning  solicituda 


212  SILAS  MARNER. 

Her  mind  not  being  courted  by  a  great  variety  of 
subjects,  she  filled  the  vacant  moments  by  living 
inwardly,  again  and  again,  through  all  her  remem- 
bered experience,  especially  through  the  fifteen 
years  of  her  married  time,  in  which  her  life  and 
its  significance  had  been  doubled.  She  recalled 
the  small  details,  the  words,  tones,  and  looks,  in 
the  critical  scenes  which  had  opened  a  new  epoch 
for  her  by  giving  her  a  deeper  insight  into  the 
relations  and  trials  of  life,  or  which  had  called  on 
her  for  some  little  effort  of  forbearance,  or  of  pain- 
ful adherence  to  an  imagined  or  real  duty,  —  asking 
lierself  continually  whether  she  had  been  in  any 
respect  blamable.  This  excessive  rumination  and 
self-questioning  is  perhaps  a  morbid  habit  inevi- 
table to  a  mind  of  much  moral  sensibility  when 
shut  out  from  its  due  share  of  outward  activity 
and  of  practical  claims  on  its  affections,  —  inevi- 
table to  a  noble-hearted,  childless  woman,  when 
her  lot  is  narrow.  "  I  can  do  so  little,  —  have  I 
done  it  all  well  ? "  is  the  perpetually  recurring 
thought ;  and  there  are  no  voices  calling  her  away 
from  that  soliloquy,  no  peremptory  demands  to 
divert  energy  from  vain  regret  or  superfluous 
scruple. 

There  was  one  main  thread  of  painful  experience 
in  Nancy's  married  life,  and  on  it  hung  certain 
deeply  felt  scenes,  which  were  the  oftenest  revived 
in  retrospect.  The  short  dialogue  with  Priscilla  in 
the  garden  had  determined  the  current  of  retrospect 
in  that  frequent  direction  this  particular  Sunday 
afternoon.  The  first  wandering  of  her  thought 
from  the  text,  which  she  still  attempted  dutifully 
to  follow  with  her  eyes  and  silent  lips,  was  into 
an  imaginary  enlargement  of  the  defence  she  had 


SILAS  MARKER.  213 

set  up  for  her  husband  against  Priscilla's  implied 
blame.  The  vindication  of  the  loved  object  is  the 
best  balm  affection  can  find  for  its  wounds :  "  A 
man  must  have  so  much  on  his  mind,"  is  the  belief 
by  which  a  wife  often  supports  a  cheerful  face 
under  rough  answers  and  unfeeling  words.  And 
Nancy's  deepest  wounds  had  all  come  from  the 
perception  that  the  absence  of  children  from  their 
hearth  was  dwelt  on  in  her  husband's  mind  as  a 
privation  to  which  he  could  not  reconcile  himself. 

Yet  sweet  Nancy  might  have  been  expected  to 
feel  still  more  keenly  the  denial  of  a  blessing  to 
which  she  had  looked  forward  with  all  the  varied 
expectations  and  preparations,  solemn  and  prettily 
trivial,  which  fill  the  mind  of  a  loving  woman  when 
she  expects  to  become  a  mother.  Was  there  not  a 
drawer  filled  with  the  neat  work  of  her  hands,  all 
unworn  and  untouched,  just  as  she  had  arranged  it 
there  fourteen  years  ago,  —  just,  but  for  one  little 
dress,  which  had  been  made  the  burial-dress  ?  But 
under  this  immediate  personal  trial  Nancy  was  so 
firmly  unmurmuring  that  years  ago  she  had  sud- 
denly renounced  the  habit  of  visiting  this  drawer, 
lest  she  should  in  this  way  be  cherishing  a  longing 
for  what  was  not  given. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  very  severity  towards  any 
indulgence  of  what  she  held  to  be  sinful  regret  in 
herself  that  made  her  shrink  from  applying  her  own 
standard  to  her  husband.  "  It  is  very  different,  — 
it  is  much  worse  for  a  man  to  be  disappointed  in 
that  way  :  a  woman  can  always  be  satisfied  with 
devoting  herself  to  her  husband,  but  a  man  wants 
something  that  will  make  him  look  forward  more, 
—  and  sitting  by  the  fire  is  so  much  duller  to  him 
than   to   a   woman."      And  always,   when   Nancy 


214  SILAS  MARKER. 

reached  this  point  in  her  meditations,  —  trying  with 
predetermined  sympathy  to  see  everything  as  God- 
frey saw  it,  —  there  came  a  renewal  of  self -question- 
ing. Had  she  done  everything  in  her  power  to 
lighten  Godfrey's  privation  ?  Had  she  really  been 
right  in  the  resistance  which  had  cost  her  so  much 
pain  six  years  ago  and  again  four  years  ago,  —  the 
resistance  to  her  husband's  wish  that  they  should 
adopt  a  child  ?  Adoption  was  more  remote  from 
the  ideas  and  habits  of  that  time  than  of  our  own ; 
still  Nancy  had  her  opinion  on  it.  It  was  as  neces- 
sary to  her  mind  to  have  an  opinion  on  all  topics, 
not  exclusively  masculine,  tliat  had  come  under  her 
notice,  as  for  her  to  have  a  precisely  marked  place 
for  every  article  of  her  personal  property ;  and  her 
opinions  were  always  principles  to  be  unwaveringly 
acted  on.  They  were  firm,  not  because  of  their 
basis,  but  because  she  held  them  with  a  tenacity 
inseparable  from  her  mental  action.  On  all  the 
duties  and  proprieties  of  life,  from  filial  behaviour 
to  the  arrangements  of  the  evening  toilet,  pretty 
Nancy  Lammeter,  by  the  time  she  was  three-and- 
twenty,  had  her  unalterable  little  code,  and  had 
formed  every  one  of  her  habits  in  strict  accordance 
with  that  code.  She  carried  these  decided  judg- 
ments within  her  in  the  most  unobtrusive  way: 
they  rooted  themselves  in  her  mind,  and  grew  there 
as  quietly  as  grass.  Years  ago,  we  know,  she  in- 
sisted on  dressing  like  Priscilla,  because  "it  was 
right  for  sisters  to  dress  alike,"  and  because  "  she 
would  do  what  was  right  if  she  wore  a -gown  dyed 
with  cheese-colouring."  That  was  a  trivial  but 
typical  instance  of  the  mode  in  which  Nancy's  life 
was  regulated. 

It  was  one  of  those  rigid  principles,  and  no  petty 


SILAS  MARNER.  215 

egoistic  feeling,  which  had  been  the  ground  of 
Nancy's  difficult  resistance  to  her  husband's  wish. 
To  adopt  a  child,  because  children  of  your  own 
had  been  denied  you,  was  to  try  and  choose  your 
lot  in  spite  of  Providence :  the  adopted  child,  she 
was  convinced,  would  never  turn  out  well,  and 
would  be  a  curse  to  those  who  had  wilfully  and 
rebelliously  sought  what  it  was  clear  that,  for  some 
high  reason,  they  were  better  without.  When  you 
saw  a  thing  was  not  meant  to  be,  said  Nancy,  it 
was  a  bounden  duty  to  leave  off  so  much  as  wish- 
ing for  it.  And  so  far,  perhaps,  the  wisest  of  men 
could  scarcely  make  more  than  a  verbal  improve- 
ment in  her  principle.  But  the  conditions  under 
which  she  held  it  apparent  that  a  thing  was  not 
meant  to  be,  depended  on  a  more  peculiar  mode 
of  thinking.  She  would  have  given  up  making  a 
purchase  at  a  particular  place  if  on  three  succes- 
sive times  rain,  or  some  other  cause  of  Heaven's 
sending,  had  formed  an  obstacle ;  and  she  would 
have  anticipated  a  broken  limb  or  other  heavy  mis- 
fortune to  any  one  who  persisted  in  spite  of  such 
indications. 

"But  why  should  you  think  the  child  would 
turn  out  ill  ? "  said  Godfrey,  in  his  remonstrances. 
"  She  has  thriven  as  well  as  child  can  do  with  the 
weaver ;  and  he  adopted  her.  There  is  n't  such  a 
pretty  little  girl  anywhere  else  in  the  parish,  or 
one  fitter  for  the  station  we  could  give  her.  Where 
can  be  the  likelihood  of  her  being  a  curse  to 
anybody  ? " 

"Yes,  my  dear  Godfrey,"  said  Nancy,  who  was 
sitting  with  her  hands  tightly  clasped  together, 
and  with  yearning,  regretful  affection  in  her  eyes. 
"  The  child  may  not  turn  out  ill  with  the  weaver. 


2i6  SILAS  MARNER. 

But,  then,  he  did  n't  go  to  seek  her,  as  we  should 
be  doing.  It  will  be  wrong:  I  feel  sure  it  will. 
Don't  you  remember  what  that  lady  we  met  at 
the  Eoyston  Baths  told  us  about  the  child  her 
sister  adopted?  That  was  the  only  adopting  I 
ever  heard  of ;  and  the  child  was  transported  when 
it  was  twenty-three.  Dear  Godfrey,  don't  ask  me 
to  do  what  I  know  is  wrong :  I  should  never  be 
happy  again.  I  know  it 's  very  hard  for  you,  —  it 's 
easier  for  me,  —  but  it 's  the  will  of  Providence." 

It  might  seem  singular  that  Nancy  —  with  her 
religious  theory  pieced  together  out  of  narrow  social 
traditions,  fragments  of  church  doctrine  imperfectly 
understood,  and  girl'sh  reasonings  on  her  small 
experience  —  should  have  arrived  by  herself  at  a 
way  of  thinking  so  nearly  akin  to  that  of  many 
devout  people  whose  beliefs  are  held  in  the  shape 
of  a  system  quite  remote  from  her  knowledge: 
singular,  if  we  did  not  know  that  human  beliefs, 
like  all  other  natural  growths,  elude  the  barriers 
of  system, 

Godfrey  had  from  the  first  specified  Eppie,  then 
about  twelve  years  old,  as  a  child  suitable  for  them 
to  adopt.  It  had  never  occurred  to  him  that  Silas 
would  rather  part  with  his  life  than  with  Eppie. 
Surely  the  weaver  would  wish  the  best  to  the 
child  he  had  taken  so  much  trouble  with,  and 
would  be  glad  that  such  good  fortune  should  happen 
to  her:  she  would  always  be  very  grateful  to  him, 
and  he  would  be  well  provided  for  to  the  end  of 
his  life,  —  provided  for  as  the  excellent  part  he  had 
done  by  the  child  deserved.  Was  it  not  an  appro- 
priate thing  for  people  in  a  higher  station  to  take 
a  charge  off  the  hands  of  a  man  in  a  lower?  It 
seemed  an  eminently  appropriate  thing  to  Godfrey, 


SILAS  MARNER.  217 

for  reasons  that  were  known  only  to  himself ;  and 
hj  a  common  fallacy,  he  imagined  the  measure 
would  be  easy  because  he  had  private  motives  for 
desiring  it.  This  was  rather  a  coarse  mode  of 
estimating  Silas's  relation  to  Eppie  ;  but  we  must 
remember  that  many  of  the  impressions  which 
Godfrey  was  likely  to  gather  concerning  the  labour- 
ing-people around  him  would  favour  the  idea  that 
deep  affections  can  hardly  go  along  with  callous 
palms  and  scant  means  ;  and  he  had  not  had  the  op- 
portunity, even  if  he  had  had  the  power,  of  enter- 
ing intimately  into  all  that  was  exceptional  in  the 
weaver's  experience.  It  was  only  the  want  of  ade- 
quate knowledge  that  could  have  made  it  possible 
for  Godfrey  deliberately  to  entertain  an  unfeeling 
project :  his  natural  kindness  had  outlived  that 
blighting  time  of  cruel  wishes,  and  Nancy's  praise 
of  him  as  a  husband  was  not  founded  entirely  on 
a  wilful  illusion. 

"  I  was  right,"  she  said  to  herself,  when  she  had 
recalled  all  their  scenes  of  discussion,  —  "I  feel  I 
was  right  to  say  him  nay,  though  it  hurt  me  more 
than  anything ;  but  how  good  Godfrey  has  been 
about  it !  Many  men  would  have  been  very  angry 
with  me  for  standing  out  against  their  wishes  ;  and 
they  might  have  thrown  out  that  they'd  had  ill- 
luck  in  marrying  me  ;  but  Godfrey  has  never  been 
the  man  to  say  me  an  unkind  word.  It's  only 
what  ho  can 't  hide :  everything  seems  so  blank  to 
him,  I  know  ;  and  the  land,  —  what  a  difference  it 
'ud  make  to  him,  when  he  goes  to  see  after  things, 
if  he  'd  children  growing  up  that  he  was  doing  it  all 
for !  But  I  won't  murmur ;  and  perhaps  if  he  'd 
married  a  woman  who  'd  have  had  children,  she  'd 
have  vexed  him  in  other  ways." 


218  SILAS  MAKNER. 

This  possibility  was  Nancy's  chief  comfort ;  and 
to  give  it  greater  strength,  she  laboured  to  make  it 
impossible  that  any  other  wife  should  have  had 
more  perfect  tenderness.  She  had  been  forced  to 
vex  him  by  that  one  denial.  Godfrey  was  not  in- 
sensible to  her  loving  effort,  and  did  Nancy  no 
injustice  as  to  the  motives  of  her  obstinacy.  It  was 
impossible  to  have  lived  with  her  fifteen  years  and 
not  be  aware  that  an  unselfish  clinging  to  the  right, 
and  a  sincerity  clear  as  the  flower-born  dew,  were 
her  main  characteristics  ;  indeed,  Godfrey  felt  this 
so  strongly  that  his  own  more  wavering  nature,  too 
averse  to  facing  difficulty  to  be  unvaryingly  simple 
and  truthful,  was  kept  in  a  certain  awe  of  this 
gentle  wife  who  watched  his  looks  with  a  yearning 
to  obey  them.  It  seemed  to  him  impossible  that  he 
should  ever  confess  to  her  the  truth  about  Eppie : 
she  would  never  recover  from  the  repulsion  the 
story  of  his  earlier  marriage  would  create,  told  to 
her  now,  after  that  long  concealment.  And  the 
child,  too,  he  thought,  must  become  an  object  of 
repulsion  :  the  very  sight  of  her  would  be  painful. 
The  shock  to  Nancy's  mingled  pride  and  ignorance 
of  the  world's  evil  might  even  be  too  much  for  her 
delicate  frame.  Since  he  had  married  her  with  that 
secret  on  his  heart,  he  must  keep  it  there  to  the  last. 
Whatever  else  he  did,  he  could  not  make  an  irrepa- 
rable breach  between  himself  and  this  long-loved 
wife. 

Meanwhile,  why  could  he  not  make  up  his  mind 
to  the  absence  of  children  from  a  hearth  brightened 
by  such  a  wife  ?  Why  did  his  mind  fly  uneasily  to 
that  void,  as  if  it  were  the  sole  reason  why  life  was 
not  thoroughly  joyous  to  him  ?  I  suppose  it  is  the 
way  with  all  men  and  women  who  reach  middle  age 


SILAS  MARNER.  219 

without  the  clear  perception  that  life  never  can  be 
thoroughly  joyous :  under  the  vague  dulness  of  the 
gray  hours,  dissatisfaction  seeks  a  definite  object, 
and  finds  it  in  the  privation  of  an  untried  good. 
Dissatisfaction  seated  musingly  on  a  childless  hearth, 
thinks  with  envy  of  the  father  whose  return  is 
greeted  by  young  voices,  —  seated  at  the  meal  where 
the  little  heads  rise  one  above  another  like  nursery 
plants,  it  sees  a  black  care  hovering  behind  every 
one  of  them,  and  thinks  the  impulses  by  which  men 
abandon  freedom,  and  seek  for  ties,  are  surely  noth- 
ing but  a  brief  madness.  In  Godfrey's  case  there 
were  further  reasons  why  his  thoughts  should  be 
continually  solicited  by  this  one  point  in  his  lot : 
his  conscience,  never  thoroughly  easy  about  Eppie, 
now  gave  his  childless  home  the  aspect  of  a  retribu- 
tion ;  and  as  the  time  passed  on,  under  Nancy's  re- 
fusal to  adopt  her,  any  retrieval  of  his  error  became 
more  and  more  difficult. 

On  this  Sunday  afternoon  it  was  already  four 
years  since  there  had  been  any  allusion  to  the  sub- 
ject between  them,  and  Nancy  supposed  that  it  was 
forever  buried. 

"  I  wonder  if  he  '11  mind  it  less  or  more  as  he 
gets  older,"  she  thought,  "  I  'm  afraid  more.  Aged 
people  feel  the  miss  of  children  :  what  would  father 
do  without  Priscilla  ?  And  if  I  die,  Godfrey  will  be 
very  lonely,  —  not  holding  together  with  his  broth- 
ers much.  But  I  won't  be  over-anxious,  and  trying 
to  make  things  out  beforehand :  I  must  do  my  best 
for  the  present." 

With  that  last  thought  Nancy  roused  herself  from 
her  revery,  and  turned  her  eyes  again  towards  the 
forsaken  page.  It  had  been  forsaken  longer  than 
she  imagined,  for   she  was   presently  surprised  by 


220  SILAS  MARNER. 

the  appearance  of  the  servant  with  the  tea-things. 
It  was,  in  fact,  a  little  before  the  usual  time  for 
tea;  but  Jane  had  her  reasons. 

"  Is  your  master  come  into  the  yard,  Jane  ? " 

"  No,  'm,  he  is  n't,"  said  Jane,  with  a  slight  empha- 
sis, of  which,  however,  her  mistress  took  no  notice. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  've  seen  'em,  'm,"  con- 
tinued Jane,  after  a  pause,  "  but  there 's  folks  making 
haste  all  one  way,  afore  the  front  window.  I  doubt 
something 's  happened.  There 's  niver  a  man  to  be 
seen  i'  the  yard,  else  I  'd  send  and  see.  I  've  been 
up  into  the  top  attic,  but  there  's  no  seeing  any- 
thing for  trees.     I  hope  nobody 's  hurt,  that 's  all." 

"  Oh  no,  I  dare  say  there 's  nothing  much  the 
matter,"  said  Nancy.  "  It 's  perhaps  Mr.  Snell's  bull 
got  out  again,  as  he  did  before." 

"  I  wish  he  may  n't  gore  anybody,  then,  that 's 
all,"  said  Jane,  not  altogether  despising  a  hypothesis 
which  covered  a  few  imaginary  calamities. 

"That  girl  is  always  terrifying  me,"  thought 
Nancy ;  "  I  wish  Godfrey  would  come  in." 

She  went  to  the  front  window  and  looked  as  far  as 
she  could  see  along  the  road,  with  an  uneasiness 
which  she  felt  to  be  childish,  for  there  were  now  no 
such  signs  of  excitement  as  Jane  had  spoken  of,  and 
Godfrey  would  not  be  likely  to  return  by  the  village 
road,  but  by  the  fields.  She  continued  to  stand, 
however,  looking  at  the  placid  churchyard  with  the 
long  shadows  of  the  gravestones  across  the  bright 
green  hillocks,  and  at  the  glowing  autumn  colours  of 
the  Kectory  trees  beyond.  Before  such  calm  external 
beauty  the  presence  of  a  vague  fear  is  more  distinctly 
felt,  —  like  a  raven  flapping  its  slow  wing  across  the 
sunny  air.  Nancy  wished  more  and  more  that  God- 
frey would  come  in. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Some  one  opened  the  door  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  and  Nancy  felt  that  it  was  her  husband.  She 
turned  from  the  wmdow  with  gladness  in  her  eyes, 
for  the  wife's  chief  dread  was  stilled. 

"  Dear,  I  'm  so  thankful  you  're  come,"  she  said, 
going  towards  him.     "I  began  to  get  — " 

She  paused  abruptly,  for  Godfrey  was  laying  down 
his  hat  with  trembling  hands,  and  turned  towards 
her  with  a  pale  face  and  a  strange  unanswering 
glance,  as  if  he  saw  her,  indeed,  but  saw  her  as  part 
of  a  scene  invisible  to  herself.  She  laid  her  hand 
on  his  arm,  not  daring  to  speak  again  ;  but  he  left  the 
touch  unnoticed,  and  threw  himself  into  his  chair. 

Jane  was  already  at  the  door  with  the  hissing  urn. 

"  Tell  her  to  keep  away,  will  you  ? "  said  Godfrey ; 
and  when  the  door  was  closed  again,  he  exerted 
himself  to  speak   more  distinctly. 

"  Sit  down,  Nancy,  —  there,"  he  said,  pomting  to  a 
chair  opposite  him.  "  I  came  back  as  soon  as  I  could, 
to  hinder  anybody's  telling  you  but  me.  I  Ve  had  a 
great  shock,  —  but  I  care  most  about  the  shock  it  '11 
be  to  you." 

"  It  is  n  't  father  and  Priscilla  ?  "  said  Nancy,  with 
quivering  lips,  clasping  her  hands  together  tightly 
on  her  lap. 

"No,  it's  nobody  living,"  said  Godfrey,  unequal 
to  the  considerate  skill  with  which  he  would  have 
wished  to  make  his  revelation.    "It's  Dunstan, — 


222  SILAS  MARNER. 

my  brother  Dunstan,  that  we  lost  sight  of  sixteen 
years  ago.  We  've  found  him,  —  found  his  body  — 
his  skeleton." 

The  deep  dread  Godfrey 's  look  had  created  in 
Nancy  made  her  feel  these  words  a  relief.  She  sat 
in  comparative  calmness  to  hear  what  else  he  had 
to  tell.     He  went  on :  — 

"  The  Stone-pit  has  gone  dry  suddenly,  —  from 
the  draining,  I  suppose ;  and  there  he  lies,  —  has  lain 
for  sixteen  years,  wedged  between  two  great  stones. 
There 's  his  watch  and  seals,  and  there 's  my  gold- 
handled  hunting-whip,  with  my  name  on :  he  took 
it  away,  without  my  knowing,  the  day  he  went 
hunting  on  Wildfire,  the  last  time  he  was  seen." 

Godfrey  paused :  it  was  not  so  easy  to  say  what 
came  next. 

"  Do  you  think  he  drowned  himself  ? "  said 
Nancy,  almost  wondering  that  her  husband  should 
be  so  deeply  shaken  by  what  had  happened  all 
those  years  ago  to  an  unloved  brother,  of  whom 
worse  things  had  been  augured. 

"  No,  he  fell  in,"  said  Godfrey,  in  a  low  but  dis- 
tinct voice,  as  if  he  felt  some  deep  meaning  in  the 
fact.  Presently  he  added  :  "  Dunstan  was  the  man 
that  robbed  Silas  Marner." 

The  blood  rushed  to  Nancy's  face  and  neck  at 
tliis  surprise  and  shame,  for  she  had  been  bred  up 
to  regard  even  a  distant  kinship  with  crime  as  a 
dishonour. 

"  Oh,  Godfrey  ! "  she  said,  with  compassion  in  her 
tone,  for  she  had  immediately  reflected  that  the 
dishonour  must  be  felt  still  more  keenly  by  her 
husband. 

"  There  was  the  money  in  the  pit,"  he  continued, 
' — "all   the   weaver's    money.     Everything's   been 


Nancy  and  Godfrey  Cass. 
Photo- Etching.  —  From  Drawing  by  W.  L.  Taylor. 


liniif.:..- 


SILAS  MARKER.  223 

gathered  up,  and  they  're  taking  the  skeleton  to  the 
Eainbow.  But  I  came  back  to  tell  you  :  there  was 
no  hindering  it ;  you  must  know." 

He  was  silent,  looking  on  the  ground  for  two 
long  minutes,  Nancy  would  have  said  some  words 
of  comfort  under  this  disgrace,  but  she  refrained, 
from  an  instinctive  sense  that  there  was  something 
behind,  —  that  Godfrey  had  sometliing  else  to  tell 
her.  Presently  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  her  face,  and 
kept  them  fixed  on  her,  as  he  said, — 

"  Everything  comes  to  light,  Nancy,  sooner  or 
later.  When  God  Almighty  wills  it,  our  secrets 
are  found  out.  I've  lived  with  a  secret  on  my 
mind,  but  I  '11  keep  it  from  you  no  longer.  I 
would  n't  have  you  know  it  by  somebody  else,  and 
not  by  me,  —  I  would  n't  have  you  find  it  out  after 
I  'm  dead.  I  'd  tell  you  now.  It 's  been  '  I  will ' 
and  '  I  won't '  with  me  all  my  Life,  —  I  '11  make 
sure  of  myself  now." 

Nancy's  utmost  dread  had  returned.  The  eyes 
of  the  husband  and  wife  met  w4th  awe  in  them,  as 
at  a  crisis  which  suspended  affection. 

"  Nancy,"  said  Godfrey,  slowly,  "  when  I  married 
you,  I  hid  something  from  you,  —  something  I 
ought  to  have  told  you.  That  woman  Marner  found 
dead  in  the  snow  —  Eppie's  mother  —  that  wretched 
woman  —  was  my  wife :  Eppie  is  my  child." 

He  paused,  dreading  the  effect  of  his  confession. 
But  Nancy  sat  quite  still,  only  that  her  eyes 
dropped  and  ceased  to  meet  his.  She  was  pale 
and  quiet  as  a  meditative  statue,  clasping  her  hands 
on  her  lap, 

"You  '11  never  think  the  same  of  me  again,"  said 
Godfrey,  after  a  little  jvhile,  with  some  tremor  in 
his  voice. 


224  SILAS  MARNER. 

She  was  silent, 

"  I  ought  n't  to  have  left  the  child  unowned  ;  I 
ought  n't  to  have  kept  it  from  you.  But  I  could  n't 
bear  to  give  you  up,  Nancy.  I  was  led  away  into 
marrying  her,  —  I  suffered  for  it." 

Still  Nancy  was  silent,  looking  down  ;  and.  he 
almost  expected  that  she  would  presently  get  up 
and  say  she  would  go  to  her  father's.  How  could 
she  have  any  mercy  for  faults  that  must  seem  so 
black  to  her,  with  her  simple  severe  notions  ? 

But  at  last  she  lifted  up  her  eyes  to  his  again 
and  spoke.  There  was  no  indignation  in  her  voice, 
—  only  deep  regret. 

"  Godfrey,  if  you  had  but  told  me  this  six  years 
ago,  we  could  have  done  some  of  our  duty  by  the 
child.  Do  you  think  I  'd  have  refused  to  take  her 
in,  if  I  'd  known  she  was  yours  ? " 

At  that  moment  Godfrey  felt  all  the  bitterness 
of  an  error  that  was ''  not  simply  futile,  but  had 
defeated  its  own  end.  He  had  not  measured  this 
wife  with  whom  he  had  lived  so  long.  But  she 
spoke  again,  with  more  agitation. 

"  And  —  oh,  Godfrey  —  if  we  'd  had  her  from 
the  first,  if  you  'd  taken  to  her  as  you  ought,  she  'd 
have  loved  me  for  her  mother,  —  and  you  'd  have 
been  happier  with  me :  I  could  better  have  bore  my 
little  baby  dying,  and  our  life  might  have  been 
more  like  what  we  used  to  think  it  'ud  be." 

The  tears  fell,  and  Nancy  ceased  to  speak. 

"  But  you  would  n't  have  married  me  then, 
Nancy,  if  I  'd  told  you,"  said  Godfrey,  urged,  in 
the  bitterness  of  his  self-reproach,  to  prove  to  him- 
self that  his  conduct  had  not  been  utter  folly. 
"  You  may  think  you  would  now,  but  you  would  n't 
then.     With  your   pride   and  your  father's  you'd 


SILAS  MARNER.  225 

have  hated  having  anything  to  do  with  me  after 
the  talk  there 'd  have  been." 

"  I  can't  say  what  I  should  have  done  about  that, 
Godfrey.  I  should  never  have  married  anybody 
else.  But  I  was  n't  worth  doing  wrong  for,  — 
nothing  is  in  this  world.  Nothing  is  so  good  as  it 
seems  beforehand,  — not  even  our  marrying  wasn't, 
you  see."  There  was  a  faint  sad  smile  on  Nancy's 
face  as  she  said  the  last  words. 

"  I  'm  a  worse  man  than  you  thought  I  was, 
Nancy,"  said  Godfrey,  rather  tremulously.  "  Can 
you  forgive  me  ever  ?  " 

"  The  wrong  to  me  is  but  little,  Godfrey :  you  've 
made  it  up  to  me,  —  you  've  been  good  to  me  for 
fifteen  years.  It 's  another  you  did  the  wrong  to  ; 
and  I  doubt  it  can  never  be  all  made  up  for." 

"  But  we  can  take  Eppie  now,"  said  Godfrey,  "  I 
won't  mind  the  world  knowing  at  last.  I'll  be 
plain  and  open  for  the  rest  o'  my  life." 

"  It  '11  be  different  coming  to  us,  now  she  's  grown 
up,"  said  Nancy,  shaking  her  head  sadly.  "  But 
it 's  your  duty  to  acknowledge  her  and  provide  for 
her ;  and  I  '11  do  my  part  by  her,  and  pray  to  God 
Almighty  to  make  her  love  me." 

"  Then  we  '11  go  together  to  Silas  Marner's  this 
very  night,  as  soon  as  everything 's  quiet  at  the 
Stone-pits." 


CHAPTEE   XIX. 

Between  eight  and  nine  o'clock  that  evening, 
Eppie  and  Silas  were  seated  alone  in  the  cottage. 
After  the  great  excitement  the  weaver  had  under- 
gone from  the  events  of  the  afternoon,  he  had  felt 
a  longing  for  this  quietude,  and  had  even  begged 
Mrs.  Winthrop  and  Aaron,  who  had  naturally 
lingered  behind  every  one  else,  to  leave  him  alone 
with  his  child.  The  excitement  had  not  passed 
away  :  it  had  only  reached  that  stage  when  the 
keenness  of  the  susceptibility  makes  external  stimu- 
lus intolerable,  —  when  there  is  no  sense  of  weari- 
ness, but  rather  an  intensity  of  inward  life,  under 
which  sleep  is  an  impossibility.  Any  one  who  has 
watched  such  moments  in  other  men  remembers 
the  brightness  of  the  eyes  and  the  strange  definite- 
ness  tiiat  comes  over  coarse  features  from  that 
transient  influence.  It  is  as  if  a  new  fineness  of 
ear  for  all  spiritual  voices  had  sent  wonder-working 
vibrations  through  the  heavy  mortal  frame,  —  as  if 
"beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound "  had  passed  into 
the  face  of  the  listener. 

Silas's  face  showed  that  sort  of  transfiguration,  as 
he  sat  in  his  arm-chair  and  looked  at  Eppie.  She 
had  drawn  her  own  chair  towards  his  knees,  and 
leaned  forward,  holding  both  his  hands,  while  she 
looked  up  at  him.  On  the  table  near  them,  lit  by 
a  candle,  lay  the  recovered  gold,  —  the  old  long- 
loved  gold,  ranged  in  orderly  heaps,  as  Silas  used 
to  range  it  in  the  days  when  it  was  his  only  joy. 
He  had  been  telling  her  how  he  used  to  count  it 


SILAS  MARNER.  227 

every  night,  and  how  his  soul  was  utterly  desolate 
till  she  was  sent  to  him. 

"  At  first,  I  'd  a  sort  o'  feeling  come  across  me  now 
and  then,"  he  was  saying  in  a  subdued  tone,  "  as  if 
you  might  be  changed  into  the  gold  again ;  for  some- 
times, turn  my  head  which  way  I  would,  I  seemed 
to  see  the  gold ;  and  I  thought  I  should  be  glad  if 
I  could  feel  it,  and  find  it  was  come  back.  But 
that  did  n't  last  long.  After  a  bit,  I  should  have 
thought  it  was  a  curse  come  again,  if  it  had 
drove  you  from  me,  for  I  'd  got  to  feel  the  need  o' 
your  looks  and  your  voice  and  the  touch  0'  your 
little  fingers.  You  did  n't  know  then,  Eppie,  when 
you  were  such  a  little  un,  —  you  did  n't  know  what 
your  old  father  Silas  felt  for  you." 

"  But  I  know  now,  father,"  said  Eppie.  "  If  it 
had  n't  been  for  you,  they  'd  have  taken  me  to  the 
workhouse,  and  there  'd  have  been  nobody  to  love 
me." 

"  Eh,  my  precious  child,  the  blessing  was  mine. 
If  you  had  n't  been  sent  to  save  me,  I  should  ha' 
gone  to  the  grave  in  my  misery.  The  money  was 
taken  away  from  me  in  time ;  and  you  see  it 's  been 
kept,  —  kept  till  it  was  wanted  for  you.  It 's 
wonderful,  —  our  life  is  wonderful." 

Silas  sat  in  silence  a  few  minutes,  looking  at  the 
money.  "  It  takes  no  hold  of  me  now,"  he  said, 
ponderingly,  —  "the  money  doesn't.  I  wonder  if 
it  ever  could  again,  —  I  doubt  it  might,  if  I  lost  you, 
Eppie.  I  might  come  to  think  I  was  forsaken  again, 
f^nd  lose  the  feeling  that  God  was  good  to  me." 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  knocking  at  the 
door  ;  and  Eppie  was  obliged  to  rise  without  answer- 
ing Silas.  Beautiful  she  looked,  with  the  tender- 
ness of  gathering  tears  in  her  eyes  and   a   slight 


228  SILAS  MARNER. 

flush  on  her  cheeks,  as  she  stepped  to  open  the  door. 
The  flush  deepened  when  she  saw  Mr,  and  Mrs. 
Godfrey  Cass.  She  made  her  little  rustic  courtesy, 
and  held  the  door  wide  for  them  to  enter. 

"  We  're  disturbing  you  very  late,  my  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Cass,  taking  Eppie's  hand,  and  looking  in  her 
face  with  an  expression  of  anxious  interest  and  ad- 
miration.    Xancy  herself  was  pale  and  tremulous. 

Eppie,  after  placing  chairs  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cass, 
went  to  stand  against  Silas,  opposite  to  them. 

"Well,  Marner,"  said  Godfrey,  trying  to  speak 
with  perfect  firmness,  "  it 's  a  great  comfort  to  me 
to  see  you  with  your  money  again,  that  you  've 
been  deprived  of  so  many  years.  It  was  one  of 
my  family  did  you  the  wrong,  —  the  more  grief  to 
me,  —  and  I  feel  bound  to  make  up  to  you  for  it 
in  every  way.  Whatever  I  can  do  for  you  will  be 
nothing  but  paying  a  debt,  even  if  I  looked  no 
further  than  the  robbery.  But  there  are  other 
things  I  'm  beholden  —  shall  be  beholden  to  you 
for,  Marner." 

Godfrey  checked  himself.  It  had  been  agreed 
between  him  and  his  wife  that  the  subject  of  his 
fatherhood  should  be  approached  very  carefully, 
and  that,  if  possible,  the  disclosure  should  be  re- 
served for  the  future,  so  that  it  might  be  made  to 
,Eppie  gradually.  Nancy  had  urged  this,  because 
she  felt  strongly  the  painful  light  in  which  Eppie 
must  inevitably  see  the  relation  between  her  father 
and  mother. 

Silas,  always  ill  at  ease  when  he  was  being 
spoken  to  by  "  betters,"  such  as  Mr.  Cass,  —  tall, 
powerful,  florid  men,  seen  chiefly  on  horseback,  — 
answered  with  some  constraint,  — 

"  Sir,  I  've  a  deal  to  thank  you  for  a'ready.     As 


SILAS  MARNER.  229 

for  the  robbery,  I  count  it  no  loss  to  me.  And  if 
I  did,  you  could  n't  help  it ;  you  are  n't  answerable 
for  it." 

"  You  may  look  at  it  in  that  way,  Marner,  but 
I  never  can  ;  and  I  hope  you  '11  let  me  act  according 
to  my  own  feeling  of  what 's  just.  I  know  you  're 
easily  contented :  you  've  been  a  hard-working  man 
all  your  life." 

"  Yes,  sir,  yes,"  said  Marner,  meditatively.  "  I 
should  ha'  been  bad  off  without  my  work :  it  was 
what  I  held  by  when  everytliiug  else  was  gone 
from  me." 

"  Ah,"  said  Godfrey,  applying  Marner's  words 
simply  to  his  bodily  wants,  "  it  was  a  good  trade 
for  you  in  this  country,  because  there 's  been  a  great 
deal  of  linen-weaving  to  be  done.  But  you  're  get- 
ting rather  past  such  close  work,  Marner :  it 's 
time  you  laid  by  and  had  some  rest.  You  look  a 
good  deal  pulled  down,  though  you  're  not  an  old 
man,  are,  you  ?  " 

"  Fifty-five,  as  near  as  I  can  say,  sir,"  said  Silas. 

"  Oh,  why,  you  may  live  thirty  years  longer,  — 
look  at  old  Macey  !  And  that  money  on  the  table, 
after  all,  is  but  little.  It  won't  go  far  either  way,  — - 
whether  it 's  put  out  to  interest,  or  you  were  to  live 
on  it  as  long  as  it  would  last :  it  would  n't  go  far 
if  you  'd  nobody  to  keep  but  yourself,  and  you  've 
had  two  to  keep  for  a  good  many  years  now." 

"  Eh,  sir,"  said  Silas,  unaffected  by  anything  God- 
frey was  saying,  "  I  'm  in  no  fear  o'  want.  We  shall 
do  very  well,  —  Eppie  and  me  'ull  do  well  enough. 
There 's  few  working-folks  have  got  so  much  laid 
by  as  that.  I  don't  know  what  it  is  to  gentlefolks, 
but  I  look  upon  it  as  a  deal,  —  almost  too  much 
And  as  for  us,  it's  little  we  want." 


230  SILAS  MARNER. 

"  Only  the  garden,  father,"  said  Eppie,  blushing 
up  to  the  ears  the  moment  after. 

"  You  love  a  garden,  do  you,  my  dear?"  said 
Nancy,  thinking  that  this  turn  in  the  point  of  view 
might  help  her  husband.  "We  should  agree  in 
that :  I  give  a  deal  of  time  to  the  garden." 

"Ah,  there's  plenty  of  gardening  at  the  Eed 
House,"  said  Godfrey,  surprised  at  the  difficulty  he 
found  in  approacliing  a  proposition  which  had  seemed 
so  easy  to  him  in  the  distance.  "  You  've  done  a 
good  part  by  Eppie,  Marner,  for  sixteen  years.  It 
'ud  be  a  great  comfort  to  you  to  see  her  well  pro- 
vided for,  would  n't  it  ?  She  looks  blooming  and 
healthy,  but  not  jfit  for  any  hardships :  she  does  n't 
look  like  a  strapping  girl  come  of  working  parents. 
You  'd  like  to  see  her  taken  care  of  by  those  who 
can  leave  her  well  off,  and  make  a  lady  of  her ;  she 's 
more  fit  for  it  than  for  a  rough  life,  such  as  she 
might  come  to  have  in  a  few  years'  time." 

A  slight  flush  came  over  Marner's  face,  and  dis- 
appeared, like  a  passing  gleam.  Eppie  was  simply 
wondering  Mr.  Cass  should  talk  so  about  things 
that  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  reality, 
but  Silas  was  hurt  and  uneasy. 

"I  don't  take  your  meaning,  sir,"  he  answered, 
not  having  words  at  command  to  express  the  min- 
gled feelmgs  with  which  he  had  heard  Mr.  Cass's 
words. 

"  Well,  my  meaning  is  this,  Marner,"  said  God- 
frey, determined  to  come  to  the  point.  "  Mrs.  Cass 
and  I,  you  know,  have  no  children,  —  nobody  to  be 
the  better  for  our  good  home  and  everything  else 
we  have,  —  more  than  enough  for  ourselves.  And 
we  should  like  to  have  somebody  in  the  place  of 
a  daughter  to  us,  —  we  should  like  to  have  Eppie, 


SILAS  MARNER.  231 

and  treat  her  in  every  way  as  our  own  child.  It  'ud 
be  a  great  comfort  to  you  in  your  old  age,  I  hope, 
to  see  her  fortune  made  in  that  way,  after  you  've 
been  at  the  trouble  of  bringing  her  up  so  well. 
And  it's  right  you  should  have  every  reward  for 
that.  And  Eppie,  I  'm  sure,  will  always  love 
you  and  be  grateful  to  you :  she  'd  come  and  see 
you  very  often,  and  we  should  all  be  on  the  look- 
out to  do  everything  we  could  towards  making 
you  comfortable." 

A  plain  man  like  Godfrey  Cass,  speaking  under 
some  embarrassment,  necessarily  blunders  on  words 
that  are  coarser  than  his  intentions,  and  that  are 
likely  to  fall  gratingly  on  susceptible  feelings. 
While  he  had  been  speaking,  Eppie  had  quietly 
passed  her  arm  behind  Silas's  head,  and  let  her 
hand  rest  against  it  caressingly:  she  felt  him 
trembling  violently.  He  was  silent  for  some  mo- 
ments when  Mr.  Cass  had  ended,  —  powerless  under 
the  conflict  of  emotions,  all  alike  painful.  Eppie's 
heart  was  swelling  at  the  sense  that  her  father  was 
in  distress  ;  and  she  was  just  going  to  lean  down 
and  speak  to  him,  when  one  struggling  dread  at 
last  gained  the  mastery  over  every  other  in  Silas, 
and  he  said  faintly, — 

"  Eppie,  my  child,  speak.  I  won't  stand  in  your 
way.     Thank  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cass." 

Eppie  took  her  hand  from  her  father's  head,  and 
came  forward  a  step.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed, 
but  not  with  shyness  this  time:  the  sense  that 
her  father  was  in  doubt  and  suffering  banished 
that  sort  of  self-consciousness.  She  dropped  a  low 
courtesy,  first  to  Mrs.  Cass  and  then  to  Mr.  Cass, 
and  said,  — 

"  Thank   you,  ma  'am,  —  thank  you,  sir.     But   I 


232  SILAS  MARNER. 

can't  leave  my  father,  nor  own  anybody  nearer 
than  him.  And  I  don't  want  to  be  a  lady,  —  thank 
you  all  the  same "  (here  Eppie  dropped  another 
courtesy).  "  I  could  n't  give  up  the  folks  I  've  been 
used  to." 

Eppie's  lip  began  to  tremble  a  little  at  the  last 
words.  She  retreated  to  her  father's  chair  again, 
and  held  him  round  the  neck  ;  while  Silas,  with 
a  subdued  sob,  put  up  his  hand  to  grasp  hers. 

The,,  tears  were  in  Nancy's  eyes,  butJaer  sympathy 
with  Eppie  was,  naturally,  divided  with  distress  on 
her  husband's  account.  She  dared  not  speak,  won- 
dering what  was  going  on  in  her  husband's  mind. 

Godfrey  felt  an  irritation  inevitable  to  almost  all 
of  us  when  we  encounter  an  unexpected  obstacle. 
He  had  been  full  of  his  own  penitence  and  resolu- 
tion to  retrieve  his  error  as  far  as  the  time  was 
left  to  him  ;  he  was  possessed  with  all-important 
feelings,  that  were  to  lead  to  a  predetermined  course 
of  action  which  he  had  fixed  on  as  the  right,  and  he 
was  not  prepared  to  enter  with  lively  appreciation 
into  other  people's  feelings  counteracting  his  virtu- 
ous resolves.  The  agitation  with  which  he  spoke 
again  was  not  quite  unmixed  with  anger. 

"  But  I  've  a  claim  on  you,  Eppie,  —  the  strong- 
est of  all  claims.  It's  my  duty,  Marner,  to  own 
Eppie  as  my  child,  and  provide  for  her.  She  's  my 
own  child  :  her  mother  was  my  wife.  I  've  a  natu- 
ral claim  on  her  that  must  stand  before  every 
other." 

Eppie  had  given  a  violent  start,  and  turned  quite 
pale.  Silas,  on  the  contrary,  who  had  been  relieved, 
by  Eppie's  answer,  from  the  dread  lest  his  mind 
should  be  in  opposition  to  hers,  felt  the  spirit  of 
resistance  in  him  set  free,  not  without  a  touch  of 


SILAS  MARNER.  233 

parental  fierceness.  "  Then,  sir,"  he  answered,  with 
an  accent  of  bitterness  that  had  been  silent  in  him 
since  the  memorable  day  when  his  youthful  hope 
had  perished,  — "  then,  sir,  why  did  n't  you  say  so 
sixteen  year  ago,  and  claim  her  before  I  'd  come  to 
love  her,  i'stead  0'  coming  to  take  her  from  me  now, 
when  you  might  as  well  take  the  heart  out  o'  my 
body  ?  God  gave  her  to  me  because  you  turned 
your  back  upon  her,  and  He  looks  upon  her  as 
mme  :  you  Ve  no  right  to  her  !  When  a  man  turns 
a  blessing  from  his  door,  it  falls  to  them  as  take 
it  in." 

"  I  know  that,  Marner,  I  was .  wrong.  I  've  re- 
pented of  my  conduct  in  that  matter,"  said  Godfrey, 
who  could  not  help  feeUng  the  edge  of  Silas's 
words. 

"  I  'm  glad  to  hear  it,  sir,"  said  Marner,  with 
gathering  excitement ;  "  but  repentance  does  n't  alter 
what 's  been  going  on  for  sixteen  year.  Your  com- 
ing now  and  saying  '  I  'm  her  father,'  does  n't  alter 
the  feelings  inside  us.  It 's  me  she 's  been  calling  her 
father  ever  since  she  could  say  the  word." 

"  But  I  think  you  might  look  at  the  thing  more 
reasonably,  Marner,"  said  Godfrey,  unexpectedly 
awed  by  the  weaver's  direct  truth-speaking.  "  It 
is  n't  as  if  she  was  to  be  taken  quite  away  from  you, 
so  that  you  'd  never  see  her  again.  She  '11  be  very 
near  you,  and  come  to  see  you  very  often.  She  '11 
feel  just  the  same  towards  you." 

"  Just  the  same  ?  "  said  Marner,  more  bitterly 
than  ever.  "  How  '11  she  feel  just  the  same  for  me 
as  she  does  now,  when  we  eat  o'  the  same  bit,  and 
drink  0'  the  same  cup,  and  think  0'  the  same  things 
from  one  day's  end  to  another  ?  Just  the  same  ? 
That 's  idle  talk.     You  'd  cut  us  i'  two." 


234  SILAS  MARNER. 

Godfrey,  unqualified  by  experience  to  discern  the 
pregnancy  of  Marner's  simple  words,  felt  rather  an- 
gry again.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  weaver  was 
very  selfish  (a  judgment  readily  passed  by  those 
who  have  never  tested  their  own  power  of  sacrifice) 
to  oppose  what  was  undoubtedly  for  Eppie's  wel- 
fare ;  and  he  felt  himself  called  upon,  for  her  sake, 
to  assert  his  authority. 

"  I  should  have  thought,  Marner,"  he  said  severely, 
—  "I  should  have  thought  your  affection  for  Eppie 
would  make  you  rejoice  in  what  was  for  her  good, 
even  if  it  did  call  upon  you  to  give  up  something. 
You  ought  to  remember  your  own  life  's  uncertain, 
and  she  's  at  an  age  now  when  her  lot  may  soon  be 
fixed  in  a  way  very  different  from  what  it  would  be 
in  her  father's  home :  she  may  marry  some  low 
working-man,  and  then,  whatever  I  might  do  for 
her,  I  could  n't  make  her  well-off.  You  're  putting 
yourself  in  the  way  of  her  welfare  ;  and  though  I  'm 
sorry  to  hurt  you  after  what  you  've  done,  and  what 
I  've  left  undone,  I  feel  now  it 's  my  duty  to  insist 
on  taking  care  of  my  own  daughter.  I  want  to  do 
my  duty." 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  whether  it  were  Silas 
or  Eppie  that  was  more  deeply  stirred  by  this  last 
speech  of  Godfrey's.  Thought  had  been  very  busy 
in  Eppie  as  she  listened  to  the  contest  between  her 
old  long-loved  father  and  this  new  unfamiliar  father 
who  had  suddenly  come  to  fill  the  place  of  that 
black  featureless  shadow  which  had  held  the  ring 
and  placed  it  on  her  mother's  finger.  Her  imagina- 
tion had  darted  backward  in  conjectures,  and  for- 
ward in  previsions,  of  what  this  revealed  fatherhood 
impHed ;  and  there  were  words  in  Godfrey's  last 
speech  which  helped  to  make  the  previsions  espe- 


SILAS  MARXER.  235 

cially  definite.  Xot  that  these  thoughts,  either  of 
past  or  future,  determined  her  resolution,  —  that 
was  determined  by  the  feelings  which  vibrated  to 
every  word  Silas  had  uttered  ;  but  they  raised,  even 
apart  from  these  feelings,  a  repulsion  towards  the 
offered  lot  and  the  newly  revealed  father. 

Silas,  on  the  other  hand,  was  again  stricken  in 
conscience,  and  alarmed  lest  Godfrey's  accusation 
should  be  true,  —  lest  he  should  be  raising  his  own 
will  as  an  obstacle  to  Eppie's  good.  Fo^many 
moments  he  was  mute,  struggling  for  the  self-con- 
quest necessary  to  the  uttering  of  the  difficult  words. 
They  came  out  tremulously. 

"  I  '11  say  no  more.  Let  it  be  as  you  will.  Speak 
to  the  child.     I  '11  hinder  nothing." 

Even  Xancy,  with  all  the  acute  sensibility  of  her 
own  affections,  shared  her  husband 's  view,  that 
Marner  was  not  justifiable  in  his  wish  to  retain 
Eppie,  after  her  real  father  had  avowed  himself.  She 
felt  that  it  was  a  very  hard  trial  for  the  poor  weaver, 
but  her  code  allowed  no  question  that  a  father  by 
blood  must  have  a  claim  above  that  of  any  foster- 
father.  Besides,  Nancy,  used  all  her  life  to  plenteous 
circumstances  and  the  privileges  of  "  respectability," 
could  not  enter  into  the  pleasures  which  early 
nurture  and  habit  connect  with  all  the  little  aims 
and  efforts  of  the  poor  who  are  born  poor :  to  her 
mind  Eppie,  in  being  restored  to  her  birthright,  was 
entering  on  a  too  long  withheld  but  unquestionable 
good.  Hence  she  heard  Silas's  last  words  with 
relief,  and  thought,  as  Godfrey  did,  that  their  wish 
was  achieved. 

"Eppie,  my  dear,"  said  Godfrey,  looking  at  his 
daughter,  not  without  some  embarrassment,  under 
the  sense  that  she  was  old  enough  to  judge  him. 


236  SILAS  MAHNER. 

"  it  '11  always  be  our  wish  that  you  should  show 
your  love  and  gratitude  to  one  who  's  been  a  father 
to  you  so  many  years,  and  we  shall  want  to  help  you 
to  make  him  comfortable  in  every  way.  But  we 
hope  you  '11  come  to  love  us  as  well ;  and  though 
I  have  n  't  been  what  a  father  should  ha'  been  to 
you  all  these  years,  I  wish  to  do  the  utmost  in  my 
power  for  you  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  and  provide 
for  you  as  my  only  child.  And  you  '11  have  the 
best  of  mothers  in  my  wife,  —  that  '11  be  a  blessing 
you  haven't  known  since  you  were  old  enough  to 
know  it." 

"  My  dear,  you  '11  be  a  treasure  to  me,"  said  Nancy, 
in  her  gentle  voice.  "  We  shall  want  for  nothing 
when  we  have  our  daughter." 

Eppie  did  not  come  forward  and  courtesy,  as  she 
had  done  before.  She  held  Silas's  hand  in  hers,  and 
grasped  it  firmly,  —  it  was  a  weaver's  hand,  with  a 
palm  and  finger-tips  that  were  sensitive  to  such 
pressure,  —  while  she  spoke  with  colder  decision 
than  before. 

"  Thank  you,  ma  'am,  —  thank  you,  sir,  for  your 
offers, — they're  very  great,  and  far  above  my  wish. 
For  I  should  have  no  delight  i'  life  any  more  if  I  was 
forced  to  go  away  from  my  father,  and  knew  he 
was  sitting  at  home,  a-thinking  of  me  and  feeling 
lone.  We  've  been  used  to  be  happy  together  every 
day,  and  I  can't  think  o'  no  happiness  without,  him. 
And  he  says  he  'd  nobody  i'  the  world  till  I  was  sent 
to  him,  and  he  'd  have  nothing  when  I  was  gone. 
And  he 's  took  care  of  me  and  loved  me  from  the 
first,  and  I  '11  cleave  to  him  as  long  as  he  lives,  and 
nobody  shall  ever  come  between  him  and  me." 

"  But  you  must  make  sure,  Eppie,"  said  Silas,  in  a 
low  voice,  — "  you  must  make   sure   as  you  won't 


SILAS  MARNER.  237 

ever  be  sorry,  because  you  Ve  made  your  choice  to 
stay  among  poor  folks,  and  with  poor  clothes  and 
things,  when  you  might  ha'  had  everything  0'  the 
best." 

His  sensitiveness  on  this  point  had  increased  as 
he  listened  to  Eppie's  words  of  faithful  affection. 

"  I  can  never  be  sorry,  father,"  said  Eppie.  "  I 
should  n't  know  what  to  think  on  or  to  wish  for 
with  fine  things  about  me,  as  I  have  n't  been  used 
to.  And  it  'ud  be  poor  work  for  me  to  put  on  things, 
and  ride  in  a  gig,  and  sit  in  a  place  at  church,  as  'ud 
make  them  as  I  'm  fond  of  think  me  unfitting  com- 
pany for  'em.     "What  could  /  care  for  then  ?  " 

Nancy  looked  at  Godfrey  with  a  pained  question- 
ing glance.  But  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  floor, 
where  he  was  moving  the  end  of  his  stick,  as  if  he 
were  pondering  on  something  absently.  She  thought 
there  was  a  word  which  might  perhaps  come  better 
from  her  lips  than  from  his. 

"  What  you  say  is  natural,  my  dear  child,  —  it 's 
natural  you  should  cling  to  those  who  've  brought 
you  up,"  she  said  mildly ;  "  but  there 's  a  duty  you 
owe  to  your  lawful  father.  There 's  perhaps  some- 
thing to  be  given  up  on  more  sides  than  one.  When 
your  father  opens  his  home  to  you,  I  think  it 's 
right  you  should  n't  turn  your  back  on  it." 

"  I  can't  feel  as  I  've  got  any  father  but  one,"  said 
Eppie,  impetuously,  while  the  tears  gathered.  "  I  've 
always  thought  of  a  little  home  where  he  'd  sit  i'  the 
corner,  and  I  should  fend  and  do  everything  for  him : 
I  can't  think  o'  no  other  home.  I  was  n't  brought 
up  to  be  a  lady,  and  I  can't  turn  my  mind  to  it.  I 
like  the  working-folks,  and  their  victuals,  and  their 
ways.  And,"  she  ended  passionately,  while  the 
tears  fell,  "  I  'm  promised  to  marry  a  working-man, 


238  SILAS  MARKER. 

as '11  live  with  father,  and  help  me  to  take  care 
of  him." 

Godfrey  looked  up  at  Nancy  with  a  flushed  face 
and  smarting  dilated  eyes.  This  frustration  of  a 
purpose  towards  which  he  had  set  out  under  the 
exalted  consciousness  that  he  was  about  to  compen- 
sate in  some  degree  for  the  greatest  demerit  of  his 
life,  made  him  feel  the  air  of  the  room  stifling. 

"  Let  us  go,"  he  said,  in  an  undertone. 

"  We  won't  talk  of  this  any  longer  now,"  said 
Nancy,  rising.  "  We  're  your  well-wishers,  my  dear, 
—  and  yours  too,  Marner.  We  shall  come  and  see 
you  again.     It 's  getting  late  now." 

In  this  way  she  covered  her  husband's  abrupt 
departure;  for  Godfrey  had  gone  straight  to  the 
door,  unable  to  say  more. 


CHAPTEE  XX. 

Nancy  and  Godfrey  walked  home  under  tlie  star- 
light in  silence.  When  they  entered  the  oaken 
parlour,  Godfrey  threw  himself  into  his  chair,  while 
Xancy  laid  down  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  stood 
on  the  hearth  near  her  husband,  unwilling  to  leave 
him  even  for  a  few  minutes,  and  yet  fearing  to  utter 
any  word  lest  it  might  jar  on  his  feeling.  At  last 
Godfrey  turned  his  head  towards  her,  and  their  eyes 
met,  dwelling  in  that  meeting  without  any  move- 
ment on  either  side.  That  quiet  mutual  gaze  of  a 
trusting  husband  and  wife  is  like  the  first  moment 
of  rest  or  refuge  from  a  great  weariness  or  a  great 
danger,  —  not  to  be  interfered  with  by  speech  or 
action  which  would  distract  the  sensations  from  the 
fresh  enjoyment  of  repose. 

But  presently  he  put  out  his  hand,  and  as  Xancy 
placed  hers  within  it,  he  drew  her  towards  him, 
and  said,  — 

"  That 's  ended  ! " 

She  bent  to  kiss  him,  and  then  said,  as  she  stood 
by  his  side,  "  Yes,  I  'm  afraid  we  must  give  up  the 
hope  of  having  her  for  a  daughter.  It  wouldn't 
be  right  to  want  to  force  her  to  come  to  us  against 
her  will.  We  can't  alter  her  bringing  up  and 
what 's  come  of  it." 

"Xo,"  said  Godfrey,  with  a  keen  decisiveness  of 
tone,  in  contrast  with  his  usually  careless  and  un- 
emphatic  speech,  —  "  there 's  debts  we  can't  pay  like 
money  debts,  by  paying  extra  for  the  years  that 
have  slipped  by.     While  I  've  been  putting  off  and 


240  SILAS  MARNER. 

putting  off,  the  trees  have  been  growing,  —  it 's  too 
late  now.  Marner  was  in  the  right  in  what  he  said 
about  a  man's  turning  away  a  blessing  from  his 
door :  it  falls  to  somebody  else.  I  wanted  to  pass 
for  childless  once,  Nancy,  —  I  shall  pass  for  child- 
less now  against  my  wish." 

Nancy  did  not  speak  immediately,  but  after  a  little 
while  she  asked,  "  You  won't  make  it  known,  then, 
about  Eppie's  being  your  daughter?" 

"  No  :  where  would  be  the  good  to  anybody  ?  — 
only  harm.  I  must  do  what  I  can  for  her  in  the 
state  of  life  she  chooses.  I  must  see  who  it  is 
she's  thinking  of  marrying." 

"  If  it  won't  do  any  good  to  make  the  thing 
known,"  said  Nancy,  who  thought  she  might  now 
allow  herself  the  relief  of  entertaining  a  feeling 
which  she  had  tried  to  silence  before,  "  I  should 
be  very  thankful  for  father  and  Priscilla  never  to 
be  troubled  with  knowing  what  was  done  in  the 
past,  more  than  about  Dunsey :  it  can't  be  helped, 
their  knowing  that." 

"  I  shall  put  it  in  my  will,  —  I  think  I  shall  put 
it  in  my  will.  I  should  n't  like  to  leave  anything 
to  be  found  out,  like  this  about  Dunsey,"  said  God- 
frey, meditatively.  "  But  I  can't  see  anything  but 
difficulties  that  'ud  come  from  telling  it  now.  I  must 
do  what  I  can  to  make  her  happy  in  her  own  way. 
I  've  a  notion,"  he  added,  after  a  moment's  pause, 
"it's  Aaron  Winthrop  she  meant  she  was  engaged 
to.  I  remember  seeing  him  with  her  and  Marner 
going  away  from  church." 

"  Well,  he 's  very  sober  and  industrious,"  said  Nancy, 
trying  to  view  the  matter  as  cheerfully  as  possible. 

Godfrey  fell  into  thoughtf ulness  again.  Presently 
he  looked  up  at  Nancy  sorrowfully,  and  said,  — 


SILAS  MARNER.  241 

"  She 's  a  very  pretty,  nice  girl,  is  n't  she, 
Nancy  ? " 

"  Yes,  dear  ;  and  with  just  your  hair  and  eyes  :  I 
"wondered  it  had  never  struck  me  before." 

"  I  think  she  took  a  dislike  to  me  at  the  thought 
of  my  being  her  father :  I  could  see  a  change  in  her 
manner  after  that." 

"  She  could  n't  bear  to  think  of  not  looking  on 
Marner  as  her  father,"  said  Nancy,  not  wishing  to 
confirm  her  husband's  painful  impression. 

"  She  thinks  I  did  w^rong  by  her  mother  as  well 
as  by  her.  She  thinks  me  worse  than  I  am.  But 
she  must  think  it :  she  can  never  know  all.  It  's 
part  of  my  punishment,  Nancy,  for  my  daughter  to 
dislike  me.  I  should  never  have  got  into  that 
trouble  if  I  'd  been  true  to  you,  —  if  I  had  n't  been 
a  fool.  I  'd  no  right  to  expect  anything  but  evil 
could  come  of  that  marriage,  —  and  when  I  shii'ked 
doing  a  father's  part  too." 

Nancy  was  silent :  her  spirit  of  rectitude  would 
not  let  her  try  to  soften  the  edge  of  what  she  felt 
to  be  a  just  compunction.  He  spoke  again  after  a 
little  while,  but  the  tone  was  rather  changed : 
there  was  tenderness  mingled  with  the  previous 
self-reproach. 

"  And  I  got  you,  Nancy,  in  spite  of  all ;  and  yet 
I  've  been  grumbling  and  uneasy  because  I  had  n't 
something  else,  —  as  if  I  deserved  it." 

"  You  've  never  been  wanting  to  me,  Godfrey," 
said  Nancy,  with  quiet  sincerity.  "  My  only  trou- 
ble would  be  gone  if  you  resigned  yourself  to  the 
lot  that 's  been  given  us." 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  is  n't  too  late  to  mend  a  bit 
there.  Though  it  is  too  late  to  mend  some  things, 
say  what  they  will." 

16 


CHAPTER  XXL 

The  next  morning,  when  Silas  and  Eppie  were 
seated  at  tlieir  breakfast,  he  said  to  her,  — 

"  Eppie,  there 's  a  thing  I  've  had  on  my  mind 
to  do  this  two  year,  and  now  the  money 's  been 
brought  back  to  us,  we  can  do  it.  I  've  been 
turning  it  over  and  over  in  the  night,  and  I  think 
we  '11  set  out  to-morrow,  while  the  fine  days  last. 
We  '11  leave  the  house  and  everything  for  your  god- 
mother to  take  care  on,  and  we  '11  make  a  little 
bundle  o'  things  and  set  out." 

"  Where  to  go,  daddy  ?  "  said  Eppie,  in  much 
surprise. 

"  To  my  old  country,  —  to  the  town  where  I  was 
born, —  up  Lantern  Yard.  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Pas- 
ton,  the  minister :  something  may  ha'  come  out  to 
make  'em  know  I  was  innicent  o'  the  robbery.  And 
Mr.  Paston  was  a  man  with  a  deal  o'  light,  —  I 
want  to  speak  to  him  about  the  drawing  o'  the  lots. 
And  I  should  like  to  talk  to  him  about  the  religion 
o'  this  country-side,  for  I  partly  think  he  does  n't 
know  on  it." 

Eppie  was  very  joyful,  for  there  was  the  prospect 
not  only  of  wonder  and  delight  at  seeing  a  strange 
country,  but  also  of  coming  back  to  tell  Aaron  all 
about  it.  Aaron  was  so  much  wiser  than  she  was 
about  most  things,  —  it  would  be  rather  pleasant  to 
have  this  little  advantage  over  him.  Mrs.  Win- 
throp,  though  possessed  with  a  dim  fear  of  dangers 
attendant  on  so  long  a  journey,  and  requiring  many 


SILAS  MARNER.  243 

assurances  that  it  would  not  take  them  out  of  the 
region  of  carriers'  carts  and  slow  wagons,  was 
nevertheless  well  pleased  that  Silas  should  revisit 
his  own  country,  and  find  out  if  he  had  been 
cleared  from  that  false  accusation. 

"  You  'd  be  easier  in  your  mind  for  the  rest  0' 
your  life,  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly, — "that  you 
would.  And  if  there  's  any  light  to  be  got  up  the 
Yard  as  you  talk  on,  we  've  need  of  it  i'  this  world, 
and  I  'd  be  glad  on  it  myself,  if  you  could  bring 
it  back." 

So  on  the  fourth  day  from  that  time,  Silas  and 
Eppie,  in  their  Sunday  clothes,  with  a  small  bun- 
dle tied  in  a  blue  linen  handkerchief,  were  making 
their  way  through  the  streets  of  a  great  manufac- 
turing town.  Silas,  bewildered  by  the  changes 
thirty  years  had  brought  over  his  native  place, 
had  stopped  several  persons  in  succession  to  ask 
them  the  name  of  this  town,  that  he  might  be  sure 
he  was  not  under  a  mistake  about  it, 

"  Ask  for  Lantern  Yard,  father,  —  ask  this  gentle- 
man with  the  tassels  on  his  shoulders  a-standing  at 
the  shop  door ;  he  is  n't  in  a  hurry  like  the  rest," 
said  Eppie,  in  some  distress  at  her  father's  bewilder- 
ment, and  ill  at  ease,  besides,  amidst  the  noise,  the 
movement,  and  the  multitude  of  strange  indifferent 
faces. 

"  Eh,  my  child,  he  won't  know  anything  about  it," 
said  Silas  :  "  gentlefolks  did  n't  ever  go  up  the  Yard. 
But  happen  somebody  can  tell  me  which  is  the  way 
to  Prison  Street,  where  the  jail  is.  I  know  the  way 
out  0*  that  as  if  I  'd  seen  it  yesterday." 

With  some  difficulty,  after  many  turnings  and 
new  inquiries,  they  reached  Prison  Street ;  and  the 
grim  walls  of  the  jail,  the  first  object  that  answered 


244  SILAS  MARNER. 

to  any  image  in  Silas's  memory,  cheered  him  with 
the  certitude,  which  no  assurance  of  the  town's 
name  had  hitherto  given  him,  that  he  was  in  his 
native  place. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  drawing  a  long  breath,  "  there 's  the 
jail,  Eppie ;  that 's  just  the  same :  I  are  n't  afraid 
now.  It 's  the  third  turning  on  the  left  hand  from 
the  jail  doors,  —  that 's  the  way  we  must  go." 

"  Oh,  what  a  dark  ugly  place ! "  said  Eppie. 
"  How  it  hides  the  sky  !  It 's  worse  than  the  work- 
house. I  'm  glad  you  don't  live  in  this  town  now, 
father.     Is  Lantern  Yard  like  this  street  ?  " 

"  My  precious  child,"  said  Silas,  smiling,  "  it  is  n't 
a  big  street  like  this.  I  never  was  easy  i'  this  street 
myself,  but  I  was  fond  o'  Lantern  Yard.  The  shops 
here  are  all  altered,  I  think,  —  I  can't  make  'em 
out ;  but  I  shall  know  the  turning,  because  it 's  the 
third." 

"  Here  it  is,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  satisfaction,  as 
they  came  to  a  narrow  alley.  "  And  then  we  must 
go  to  the  left  again,  and  then  straight  for'ard  for  a 
bit,  up  Shoe  Lane  ;  and  then  we  shall  be  at  the  entry 
next  to  the  o'erhanging  window,  where  there 's  the 
nick  in  the  road  for  the  water  to  run.  Eh,  I  can 
see  it  all." 

"  Oh,  father,  I  'm  like  as  if  I  was  stifled,"  said 
Eppie.  "  I  could  n't  ha'  thought  as  any  folks  lived 
i'  this  way,  so  close  together.  How  pretty  the 
Stone-pits  'ull  look  when  we  get  back  ! " 

"  It  looks  comical  to  me,  child,  now,  —  and  smells 
bad.     I  can't  think  as  it  usened  to  smell  so," 

Here  and  there  a  sallow,  begrimed  face  looked 
out  from  a  gloomy  doorway  at  the  strangers,  and 
increased  Eppie's  uneasiness,  so  that  it  was  a  longed- 
for  relief  when  they  issued  from  the   alleys   into 


SILAS  MARNER.  245 

Shoe  Lane,  where  there  was  a  broader  strip  of 
sky. 

"  Dear  heart !  "  said  Silas,  "  why,  there  's  people 
coming  out  0'  the  Yard  as  if  they  'd  been  to  chapel 
at  this  time  o'  day,  —  a  weekday  noon  !  " 

Suddenly  he  started  and  stood  still  with  a  look  of 
distressed  amazement,  that  alarmed  Eppie.  They 
were  before  an  opening  in  front  of  a  large  factory, 
from  which  men  and  women  were  streaming  for 
their  mid-day  meal. 

"  Father,"  said  Eppie,  clasping  his  arm,  "  what 's 
the  matter  ? " 

But  she  had  to  speak  again  and  again  before  Silas 
could  answer  her. 

"  It 's  gone,  child,"  he  said,  at  last,  in  strong  agi- 
tation, —  "  Lantern  Yard  's  gone.     It  must  ha'  been 

here,  because  here 's  the  house  with  the  o'erhangins 

.        .  00 

window,  —  I  know  that,  —  it 's  just  the  same ;  but 

they  've  made  this  new  opening ;  and  see  that  big 

factory  !     It 's  all  gone,  —  chapel  and  all." 

"  Come  into  that  little  brush-shop  and  sit  down, 
father,  —  they  '11  let  you  sit  down,"  said  Eppie, 
always  on  the  watch  lest  one  of  her  father's  strange 
attacks  should  come  on.  "  Perhaps  the  people  can 
tell  you  all  about  it." 

But  neither  from  the  brush-maker,  who  had  come 
to  Shoe  Lane  only  ten  years  ago,  when  the  factory 
was  already  built,  nor  from  any  other  source  with- 
in his  reach,  could  Silas  learn  anything  of  the 
old  Lantern  Yard  friends,  or  of  Mr.  Paston  the 
minister. 

"  The  old  place  is  all  swep'  away,"  Silas  said  to 
Dolly  Winthrop  on  the  night  of  his  return,  —  "  the 
little  graveyard  and  everything.  The  old  home  's 
gone ;  I  've  no  home  but  this  now.     I  shall  never 


246  SILAS  MARNER. 

know  whether  they  got  at  the  truth  o'  the  robbery, 
nor  whether  Mr.  Paston  could  ha'  given  me  any 
light  about  the  drawmg  o'  the  lots.  It 's  dark  to 
me,  Mrs.  Wmthrop,  that  is  ;  I  doubt  it  '11  be  dark  to 
the  last." 

"  Well,  yes.  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly,  who  sat 
with  a  placid  listening  face,  now  bordered  by  gray 
hairs ;  "  I  doubt  it  may.  It 's  the  will  o'  Them 
above  as  a  many  things  should  be  dark  to  us  ;  but 
there 's  some  things  as  I  've  never  felt  i'  the  dark 
about,  and  they  're  mostly  what  comes  i'  the  day's 
work.  You  were  hard  done  by  that  once.  Master 
Marner,  and  it  seems  as  you  '11  never  know  the 
rights  of  it ;  but  that  does  n't  hinder  there  heing  a 
rights,  Master  Marner,  for  all  it 's  dark  to  you  and 
me." 

"  No,"  said  Silas,  "  no ;  that  does  n't  hinder.  Since 
the  time  the  child  was  sent  to  me  and  I  've  come  to 
love  her  as  myself,  I  've  had  light  enough  to  trusten 
by ;  and  now  she  says  she  '11  never  leave  me,  I 
think  I  shall  trusten  till  I  die." 


CONCLUSIOK 

There  was  one  time  of  the  year  whicli  was  held  in 
Eaveloe  to  be  especially  suitable  for  a  wedding.  It 
was  when  the  great  lilacs  and  laburnums  in  the  old- 
fashioned  gardens  showed  their  golden  and  purple 
wealth  above  the  lichen-tinted  walls,  and  when  there 
were  calves  still  young  enough  to  want  bucketfuls 
of  fragrant  milk.  People  were  not  so  busy  then  as 
they  must  become  when  the  full  cheese-making  and 
the  mowing  had  set  in ;  and  besides,  it  was  a  time 
when  a  light  bridal  dress  could  be  worn  with  com- 
fort and  seen  to  advantage. 

Happily  the  sunshine  fell  more  warmly  than 
usual  on  the  lilac  tufts  the  morning  that  Eppie 
was  married,  for  her  dress  was  a  very  light  one. 
She  had  often  thought,  though  with  a  feeling  of 
renunciation,  that  the  perfection  of  a  wedding-dress 
would  be  a  white  cotton,  with  the  tiniest  pink  sprig 
at  wide  intervals ;  so  that  when  Mrs.  Godfrey  Cass 
begged  to  provide  one,  and  asked  Eppie  to  choose 
what  it  should  be,  previous  meditation  had  enabled 
her  to  give  a  decided  answer  at  once. 

Seen  at  a  little  distance  as  she  walked  across  the 
churchyard  and  down  the  village,  she  seemed  to  be 
attired  in  pure  white,  and  her  hair  looked  Kke  the 
dash  of  gold  on  a  lily.  One  hand  was  on  her  hus- 
band's arm,  and  with  the  other  she  clasped  the 
hand  of  her  father  Silas. 

"  You  won't  be  giving  me  away,  father,"  she  had 
said  before  they  went  to  church ;  "  you  '11  only  be 
taking  Aaron  to  be  a  son  to  you." 


248  SILAS  MARNER. 

Dolly  Winthrop  walked  behind  with  her  hus- 
band ;  and  there  ended  the  little  bridal  proces- 
sion. 

There  were  many  eyes  to  look  at  it,  and  Miss 
Priscilla  Lammeter  was  glad  that  she  and  her 
father  had  happened  to  drive  up  to  the  door  of  the 
Eed  House  just  in  time  to  see  this  pretty  sight. 
They  had  come  to  keep  Nancy  company  to-day, 
because  Mr.  Cass  had  had  to  go  away  to  Lytherley, 
for  special  reasons.  That  seemed  to  be  a  pity,  for 
otherwise  he  might  have  gone,  as  Mr.  Cracken thorp 
and  Mr.  Osgood  certainly  would,  to  look  on  at  the 
wedding-feast  which  he  had  ordered  at  the  Rainbow, 
naturally  feeling  a  great  interest  in  the  weaver  who 
had  been  wronged  by  one  of  his  own  family. 

"  I  could  ha'  wished  Nancy  had  had  the  luck  to 
find  a  child  like  that  and  bring  her  up,"  said  Pris- 
cilla to  her  father,  as  they  sat  in  the  gig ;  "  I 
should  ha'  had  something  young  to  think  of  then, 
besides  the  lambs  and  the  calves." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Lammeter ;  "  one 
feels  that  as  one  gets  older.  Things  look  dim  to 
old  folks  :  they  'd  need  have  some  young  eyes  about 
'em,  to  let  'em  know  the  world  's  the  same  as  it 
used  to  be." 

Nancy  came  out  now  to  welcome  her  father  and 
sister;  and  the  wedding  group  had  passed  on  be- 
yond the  Red  House  to  the  humbler  part  of  the 
village. 

Dolly  Winthrop  was  the  first  to  divine  that  old 
Mr.  Macey,  who  had  been  set  in  his  arm-chair  out- 
side his  own  door,  would  expect  some  special  notice 
as  they  passed,  since  he  was  too  old  to  be  at  the 
wedding-feast. 

"  Mr.  Macey 's  looking  for  a  word  from  us,"  said 


SILAS  MARNEK.  249 

Dolly ;  "  he  11  be  hurt  if  we  pass  him  and  say- 
nothing,  —  and  him  so  racked  with  rheumatiz." 

So  they  turned  aside  to  shake  hands  with  the  old 
man.  He  had  looked  forward  to  the  occasion,  and 
had  his  premeditated  speech. 

"  Well,  Master  Marner,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that 
quavered  a  good  deal,  "  I  've  lived  to  see  my  words 
come  true.  I  was  the  first  to  say  there  was  no 
harm  in  you,  though  your  looks  might  be  again' 
you ;  and  I  was  the  first  to  say  you  'd  get  your 
money  back.  And  it 's  notliing  but  rightful  as  you 
should.  And  I  'd  ha'  said  the  '  Amens,'  and  willing, 
at  the  holy  matrimony ;  but  Tookey  's  done  it  a 
good  while  now,  and  I  hope  you  '11  have  none  the 
worse  luck." 

In  the  open  yard  before  the  Eainbow  the  party 
of  guests  were  already  assembled,  though  it  was 
still  nearly  an  hour  before  the  appointed  feast-time. 
But  by  this  means  they  could  not  only  enjoy  the 
slow  advent  of  their  pleasure  ;  they  had  also  ample 
leisure  to  talk  of  Silas  ]\Iarner's  strange  history,  and 
arrive  by  due  degrees  at  the  conclusion  that  he  had 
brought  a  blessing  on  himself  by  acting  like  a  father 
to  a  lone  motherless  child.  Even  the  farrier  did 
not  negative  this  sentiment :  on  the  contrary,  he 
took  it  up  as  peculiarly  his  own,  and  invited  any 
hardy  person  present  to  contradict  him.  But  he 
met  with  no  contradiction ;  and  all  differences 
among  the  company  were  merged  in  a  general  agree- 
ment with  Mr.  Snell's  sentiment,  that  when  a  man 
had  deserved  his  good  luck,  it  was  the  part  of  his 
neighbours  to  wish  him  joy. 

As  the  bridal  group  approached,  a  hearty  cheer 
was  raised  in  the  Eainbow  yard ;  and  Ben  Win- 
throp,  whose  jokes   had  retained  their   acceptable 


250  SILAS  MARNER. 

flavour,  found  it  agreeable  to  turn  in  there  and 
receive  congratulations  ;  not  requiring  the  proposed 
interval  of  quiet  at  the  Stone-pits  before  joining  the 
company. 

Eppie  had  a  larger  garden  than  she  had  ever 
expected  there  now ;  and  in  other  ways  there  had 
been  alterations  at  the  expense  of  Mr.  Cass,  the 
landlord,  to  suit  Silas's  larger  family.  For  he  and 
Eppie  had  declared  that  they  would  rather  stay  at 
the  Stone-pits  than  go  to  any  new  home.  The  gar- 
den was  fenced  with  stones  on  two  sides,  but  in 
front  there  was  an  open  fence,  through  which  the 
flowers  shone  with  answering  gladness,  as  the  four 
united  people  came  within  sight  of  them. 

"  Oh,  father,"  said  Eppie,  "  what  a  pretty  home 
ours  is  !     I  think  nobody  could  be  happier  than  we 


END   OF   SILAS   MARKER. 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 


/ 

Give  me  no  light,  great  Heaven,  but  such  as  turns 

To  energy  of  human  fellowship  ; 

No  powers  beyond  the  growing  heritage 

That  makes  completer  manhood. 


THE    LIFTED    VEIL. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  time  of  my  end  approaches.  I  have  lately 
been  subject  to  attacks  of  angina  pectoris  ;  and  in 
the  ordinary  course  of  things,  my  physician  tells 
me,  I  may  fairly  hope  that  my  life  will  not  be 
protracted  many  months.  Unless,  then,  1  am 
cursed  with  an  exceptional  physical  constitution, 
as  I  am  cursed  with  an  exceptional  mental  charac- 
ter, I  shall  not  much  longer  groan  under  the  weari- 
some burden  of  this  earthly  existence.  If  it  were 
to  be  otherwise,  —  if  I  were  to  live  on  to  the  age 
most  men  desire  and  provide  for,  —  I  should  for 
once  have  known  whether  the  miseries  of  delusive 
expectation  can  outweigh  the  miseries  of  true  pre- 
vision. For  I  foresee  when  I  shall  die,  and  every- 
thing that  will  happen  in  my  last  moments. 

Just  a  month  from  this  day,  on  the  20th  of 
September,  1850,  I  shall  be  sitting  in  this  chair, 
in  this  study,  at  ten  o'clock  at  night,  longing  to 
die,  weary  of  incessant  insight  and  foresight,  with- 
out delusions  and  without  hope.  Just  as  I  am 
watching  a  tongue  of  blue  flame  rising  in  the  fire, 
and  my  lamp  is  burning  low,  the  horrible  contrac- 
tion will  begin  at  my  chest.  I  shall  only  have 
time  to  reach  the  bell,  and  pull  it  violently,  before 


254  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

the  sense  of  suffocation  will  come.  No  one  will 
answer  my  bell.  I  know  why.  My  two  servants 
are  lovers,  and  will  have  quarrelled.  My  house- 
keeper will  have  rushed  out  of  the  house  in  a  fury, 
two  hours  before,  hoping  that  Perry  will  believe 
she  has  gone  to  drown  herself.  Perry  is  alarmed 
at  last,  and  is  gone  out  after  her.  The  little  scul- 
lery-maid is  asleep  on  a  bench :  she  never  answers 
the  bell ;  it  does  not  wake  her.  The  sense  of  suf- 
focation increases :  my  lamp  goes  out  with  a  hor- 
rible stench :  I  make  a  great  effort,  and  snatch  at 
the  bell  again.  I  long  for  life,  and  there  is  no 
help.  I  thirsted  for  the  unknown :  the  thirst  is 
gone.  O  God,  let  me  stay  with  the  known,  and 
be  weary  of  it :  I  am  content.  Agony  of  pain  and 
suffocation,  —  and  all  the  while  the  earth,  the 
fields,  the  pebbly  brook  at  the  bottom  of  the 
rookery,  the  fresh  scent  after  the  rain,  the  light 
of  the  morning  through  my  chamber-window,  the 
warmth  of  the  hearth  after  the  frosty  air,  —  will 
darkness  close  over  them  forever? 

Darkness,  —  darkness,  —  no  pain,  —  nothing  but 
darkness :  but  I  am  passing  on  and  on  through  the 
darkness :  my  thought  stays  in  the  darkness,  but 
always  with  a  sense  of  moving  onward.   .   .   . 

Before  that  time  comes,  I  wish  to  use  my  last 
hours  of  ease  and  strength  in  telling  the  strange 
story  of  my  experience.  I  have  never  fully  un- 
bosomed myself  to  any  human  being;  I  have  never 
been  encouraged  to  trust  much  in  the  sympathy 
of  my  fellow-men.  But  we  have  all  a  chance  of 
meeting  with  some  pity,  some  tenderness,  some 
charity,  when  we  are  dead :  it  is  the  living  only 
who  cannot  be  forgiven,  —  the  living  only  from 
whom  men's  indulgence  and  reverence  are  held  off, 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  255 

like  the  rain  by  the  hard  east  wind.  While  the 
heart  beats,  bruise  it,  —  it  is  your  only  opportu- 
nity ;  while  the  eye  can  still  turn  towards  you  with 
moist  timid  entreaty,  freeze  it  with  an  icy  un- 
answering  gaze ;  while  the  ear,  that  delicate  mes- 
senger to  the  inmost  sanctuary  of  the  soul,  can 
still  take  in  the  tones  of  kindness,  put  it  off  with 
hard  civility,  or  sneering  compliment,  or  envious 
affectation  of  indifference;  while  the  creative  brain 
can  still  throb  with  the  sense  of  injustice,  with 
the  yearning  for  brotherly  recognition,  —  make 
haste,  — oppress  it  with  your  ill-considered  judg- 
ments, your  trivial  comparisons,  your  careless  mis- 
representations. The  heart  will  by  and  by  be 
still,  —  uli  sceva  indignatio  ulterius  cor  lacerare 
nequit ;  ^  the  eye  will  cease  to  entreat ;  the  ear 
will  be  deaf ;  the  brain  will  have  ceased  from  all 
wants  as  well  as  from  all  work.  Then  your  chari- 
table speeches  may  find  vent ;  then  you  may  re- 
member and  pity  the  toil  and  the  struggle  and  the 
failure ;  then  you  may  give  due  honour  to  the 
work  achieved ;  then  you  may  find  extenuation  for 
errors,   and  may  consent  to  bury  them. 

That  is  a  trivial  schoolboy  text ;  why  do  I  dwell 
on  it  ?  It  has  little  reference  to  me,  for  I  shall 
leave  no  works  behind  me  for  men  to  honour.  I 
have  no  near  relatives  who  will  make  up,  by  weep- 
ing over  my  grave,  for  the  wounds  they  inflicted 
on  me  when  I  was  among  them.  It  is  only  the 
story  of  my  life  that  will  perhaps  win  a  little 
more  sympathy  from  strangers  when  I  am  dead, 
than  I  ever  believed  it  would  obtain  from  my 
friends  while  I  was  living. 

My  childhood  perhaps  seems  happier  to  me  than 
1  Inscription  on  Swift's  tombstone. 


2s6  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

it  really  was,  by  contrast  with  all  the  after-years. 
For  then  the  curtain  of  the  future  was  as  impene- 
trable to  me  as  to  other  children :  I  had  all  their 
delight  in  the  present  hour,  their  sweet  indefinite 
hopes  for  the  morrow  ;  and  I  had  a  tender  mother : 
even  now,  after  the  dreary  lapse  of  long  years,  a 
slight  trace  of  sensation  accompanies  the  remem- 
brance of  her  caress  as  she  held  me  on  her  knee,  — 
her  arms  round  my  little  body,  her  cheek  pressed 
on  mine.  I  had  a  complaint  of  the  eyes  that  made 
me  blind  for  a  little  while,  and  she  kept  me  on 
her  knee  from  morning  till  night.  That  unequalled 
love  soon  vanished  out  of  my  life,  and  even  to  my 
childish  consciousness  it  was  as  if  that  life  had 
become  more  chill.  I  rode  my  little  white  pony 
with  the  groom  by  my  side  as  before,  but  there 
were  no  loving  eyes  looking  at  me  as  I  mounted, 
no  glad  arms  opened  to  me  when  I  came  back. 
Perhaps  I  missed  my  mother's  love  more  than 
most  children  of  seven  or  eight  would  have  done, 
to  whom  the  other  pleasures  of  life  remained  as 
before ;  for  I  was  certainly  a  very  sensitive  child. 
I  remember  still  the  mingled  trepidation  and 
delicious  excitement  with  which  I  was  affected  by 
the  tramping  of  the  horses  on  the  pavement  in  the 
echoing  stables,  by  the  loud  resonance  of  the 
grooms'  voices,  by  the  booming  bark  of  the  dogs 
as  my  father's  carriage  thundered  under  the  arch- 
way of  the  courtyard,  by  the  din  of  the  gong  as  it 
gave  notice  of  luncheon  and  dinner.  The  meas- 
ured tramp  of  soldiery  which  I  sometimes  heard 
—  for  my  father's  house  lay  near  a  county  town 
where  there  were  large  barracks  —  made  me  sob 
and  tremble ;  and  yet  when  they  were  gone  past, 
I  longed  for  them  to  come  back  again. 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  257 

I  fancy  my  father  thought  me  an  odd  child,  and 
had  little  fondness  for  me ;  though  he  was  very 
careful  in  fulfilling  what  he  regarded  as  a  parent's 
duties.  But  he  was  already  past  the  middle  of 
life,  and  I  was  not  his  only  son.  My  mother  had 
been  his  second  wife,  and  he  was  five-and-forty 
when  he  married  her.  He  was  a  firm,  unbending, 
intensely  orderly  man,  in  root  and  stem  a  banker, 
but  with  a  flourishing  graft  of  the  active  land- 
holder, aspiring  to  county  influence :  one  of  those 
people  who  are  always  like  themselves  from  day 
to  day,  who  are  uninfluenced  by  the  weather,  and 
neither  know  melancholy  nor  high  spirits.  I  held 
him  in  great  awe,  and  appeared  more  timid  and 
sensitive  in  his  presence  than  at  other  times ;  a 
circumstance  which,  perhaps,  helped  to  confirm 
him  in  the  intention  to  educate  me  on  a  different 
plan  from  the  prescriptive  one  with  which  he  had 
complied  in  the  case  of  my  elder  brother,  already 
a  tall  youth  at  Eton.  My  brother  was  to  be  his 
representative  and  successor ;  he  must  go  to  Eton 
and  Oxford,  for  the  sake  of  making  connections, 
of  course :  my  father  was  not  a  man  to  underrate 
the  bearing  of  Latin  satirists  or  Greek  dramatists 
on  the  attainment  of  an  aristocratic  position.  But, 
intrinsically,  he  had  slight  esteem  for  "  those  dead 
but  sceptred  spirits ;"  having  qualified  himself  for 
forming  an  independent  opinion  by  reading  Potter's 
"  ^Eschylus, "  and  dipping  into  Francis's  "  Horace.  " 
To  this  negative  view  he  added  a  positive  one, 
derived  from  a  recent  connection  with  mining 
speculations;  namely,  that  a  scientific  education 
was  the  really  useful  training  for  a  younger  son. 
Moreover,  it  was  clear  that  a  shy,  sensitive  boy 
like  me  was  not  fit  to  encounter  the  rough  experi- 

17 


258  THE  LIFTED  YEIL. 

ence  of  a  public  school,  Mr.  Letherall  had  said 
so  very  decidedly.  Mr,  Letherall  was  a  large  man 
in  spectacles,  who  one  day  took  my  small  head 
between  his  large  hands,  and  pressed  it  here  and 
there  in  an  exploratory,  suspicious  manner,  — 
then  placed  each  of  his  great  thumbs  on  my  tem- 
ples, and  pushed  me  a  little  way  from  him,  and 
stared  at  me  with  glittering  spectacles.  The  con- 
templation appeared  to  displease  him,  for  he 
frowned  sternly,  and  said  to  my  father,  drawing 
his  thumbs  across  my  eyebrows,  — 

"  The  deficiency  is  there,  sir,  —  there  ;  and  here, " 
he  added,  touching  the  upper  sides  of  my  head,  — 
"  here  is  the  excess.  That  must  be  brought  out, 
sir,   and  this  must  be  laid  to  sleep. " 

I  was  in  a  state  of  tremor,  partly  at  the  vague 
idea  that  I  was  the  object  of  reprobation,  partly  in 
the  agitation  of  my  first  hatred,  —  hatred  of  this 
big,  spectacled  man,  who  pulled  my  head  about  as 
if  he  wanted  to  buy  and  cheapen  it. 

I  am  not  aware  how  much  Mr,  Letherall  had  to 
do  with  the  system  afterwards  adopted  towards 
me,  but  it  was  presently  clear  that  private  tutors, 
natural  history,  science,  and  the  modern  languages 
were  the  appliances  by  which  the  defects  of  my 
organization  were  to  be  remedied.  I  was  very 
stupid  about  machines,  so  I  was  to  be  greatly  occu- 
pied with  them ;  I  had  no  memory  for  classifica- 
tion, so  it  was  particularly  necessary  that  I  should 
study  systematic  zoology  and  botany  ;  I  was  hungry 
for  human  deeds  and  human  emotions,  so  I  was 
to  •  be  plentifully  crammed  with  the  mechanical 
powers,  the  elementary  bodies,  and  the  phenomena 
of  electricity  and  magnetism.  A  better-constituted 
boy  would  certainly  have  profited  under  my  Intel- 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  259 

ligent  tutors,  with  their  scientific  apparatus ;  and 
would,  doubtless,  have  found  the  phenomena  of 
electricity  and  magnetism  as  fascinating  as  I  was, 
every  Thursday,  assured  they  were.  As  it  was,  I 
could  have  paired  off,  for  ignorance  of  whatever 
was  taught  me,  with  the  worst  Latin  scholar  that 
was  ever  turned  out  of  a  classical  academy.  I  read 
Plutarch,  and  Shakespeare,  and  Don  Quixote  by 
the  sly,  and  supplied  myself  in  that  way  with 
wandering  thoughts,  while  my  tutor  was  assuring 
me  that  "  an  improved  man,  as  distinguished  from 
an  ignorant  one,  was  a  man  who  knew  the  reason 
wlix^^'ter  ran  down-hill.J'  I_had  no  desjre  to  be 
tjiis  improved  man ;  I  was  glad  ^_the  running 
water ;  I  could  watch  it  and  listen  to  it  gurgling 
a!lltmg-feho  pcbMgsT'and^batliing  the  bright  gree n 
water-plants,  by  the  iiour  together.  I  did  not 
vmnt  toknow  wliy  itran ;  I  had  perfect  confidence 
that  there  were  good  reasons  for  what  was  so^ery 
beautiful. 

There  is  no  need  to  dwell  on  this  part  of  my 
life.  I  have  said  enough  to  indicate  that  my 
nature  was  of  the  sensitive,  unpractical  order,  and 
that  it  grew  up  in  an  uncongenial  medium,  which 
could  never  foster  it  into  happy,  healthy  develop- 
ment. When  I  was  sixteen  I  was  sent  to  Geneva 
to  complete  my  course  of  education ;  and  the 
change  was  a  very  happy  one  to  me,  for  the  first 
sight  of  the  Alps,  with  the  setting  sun  on  them, 
as  we  descended  the  Jura,  seemed  to  me  like  an 
entrance  into  heaven ;  and  the  three  years  of  my 
life  there  were  spent  in  a  perpetual  sense  of  exalta- 
tion, as  if  from  a  draught  of  delicious  wine,  at  the 
presence  of  Nature  in  all  her  awful  loveliness. 
You  will  think,  perhaps,  that  I  must  have  been  a 


26o  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

poet,  from  this  early  sensibility  to  Nature.  But 
my  lot  was  not  so  happy  as  that.  A  poet  pours 
forth  his  song  and  believes  in  the  listening  ear  and 
answering  soul,  to  which  his  song  will  be  floated 
sooner  or  later.  But  the  poet's  sensibility  with- 
out his  voice,  — the  poet's  sensibility  that  finds  no 
vent  but  in  silent  tears  on  the  sunny  bank,  when 
the  noonday  light  sparkles  on  the  water  or  in  an 
inward  shudder  at  the  sound  of  harsh  human  tones, 
the  sight  of  a  cold  human  eye,  —  this  dumb  pas- 
sion brings  with  it  a  fatal  solitude  of  soul  in  the 
society  of  one's  fellow-men.  My  least  solitary 
moments  were  those  in  which  I  pushed  off  in  my 
boat,  at  evening,  towards  the  centre  of  the  lake ; 
it  seemed  to  me  that  the  sky,  and  the  glowing 
mountain-tops,  and  the  wide  blue  water  sur- 
rounded me  with  a  cherishing  love  such  as  no 
human  face  had  shed  on  me  since  my  mother's 
love  had  vanished  out  of  my  life.  I  used  to  do  as 
Jean  Jacques  did,  —  lie  down  in  my  boat  and  let 
it  glide  where  it  would,  while  I  looked  up  at  the 
departing  glow  leaving  one  mountain-top  after  the 
other,  as  if  the  prophet's  chariot  of  fire  were  pass- 
ing over  them  on  its  way  to  the  home  of  light. 
Then,  when  the  white  summits  were  all  sad  and' 
corpse-like,  I  had  to  push  homeward,  for  I  was 
under  careful  surveillance,  and  was  allowed  no 
late  wanderings.  This  disposition  of  mine  was 
not  favourable  to  the  formation  of  intimate  friend- 
ships among  the  numerous  youths  of  my  own  age 
who  are  always  to  be  found  studying  at  Geneva. 
Yet  I  made  one  such  friendship ;  and,  singularly 
enough,  it  was  with  a  youth  whose  intellectual 
tendencies  were  the  very  reverse  of  my  own.  I 
shall  call  him  Charles  Meunier :  his  real  surname 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  261 

—  an  English  one,  for  he  was  of  English  extrac- 
tion—  having  since  become  celebrated.  He  was 
an  orphan,  who  lived  on  a  miserable  pittance  while 
he  pursued  the  medical  studies  for  which  he  had 
a  special  genius.  Strange !  that  with  my  vague 
mind,  susceptible  and  unobservant,  hating  inquiry 
and  given  up  to  contemplation,  I  should  have  been 
drawn  towards  a  youth  whose  strongest  passion 
was  science.  But  the  bond  was  not  an  intellectual 
one ;  it  came  from  a  source  that  can  happily  blend 
the  stupid  with  the  brilliant,  the  dreamy  with  the 
practical :  it  came  from  community  of  feeling. 
Charles  was  poor  and  ugly,  derided  by  Genevese 
gamins,  and  not  acceptable  in  drawing-rooms.  I 
saw  that  he  was  isolated,  as  I  was,  though  from  a 
different  cause,  and,  stimulated  by  a  sympathetic 
resentment,  I  made  timid  advances  towards  him. 
It  is  enough  to  say  that  there  sprang  up  as  much 
comradeship  between  us  as  our  different  habits 
would  allow;  and  in  Charles's  rare  holidays  we 
went  up  the  Sal^ve  together,  or  took  the  boat  to 
Vevay,  while  I  listened  dreamily  to  the  mono- 
logues in  which  he  unfolded  his  bold  conceptions 
of  future  experiment  and  discovery.  I  mingled 
them  confusedly  in  my  thought  with  glimpses  of 
blue  water  and  delicate  floating  cloud,  with  the 
notes  of  birds  and  the  distant  glitter  of  the  glacier. 
He  knew  quite  well  that  my  mind  was  half  absent, 
yet  he  liked  to  talk  to  me  in  this  way;  for  don't 
we  talk  of  our  hopes  and  our  projects  even  to  dogs 
and  birds,  when  they  love  us  ?  I  have  mentioned 
this  one  friendship  because  of  its  connection  with 
a  strange  and  terrible  scene  which  I  shall  have  to 
narrate  in  my  subsequent  life. 

This  happier  life  at  Geneva  was  put  an  end  to 


262  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

by  a  severe  illness,  which  is  partly  a  blank  to  me, 
partly  a  time  of  dimly  remembered  suffering,  with 
the  presence  of  my  father  by  my  bed  from  time  to 
time.  Then  came  the  languid  monotony  of  con- 
valescence, the  days  gradually  breaking  into  variety 
and  distinctness  as  my  strength  enabled  me  to 
take  longer  and  longer  drives.  On  one  of  these 
more  vividly  remembered  days,  my  father  said  to 
me,  as  he  sat  beside  my  sofa,  — 

"  When  you  are  quite  well  enough  to  travel, 
Latimer,  I  shall  take  you  home  with  me.  The 
journey  will  amuse  you  and  do  you  good,  for  I 
shall  go  through  the  Tyrol  and  Austria,  and  you 
will  see  many  new  places.  Our  neighbours,  the 
Filmores,  are  come ;  Alfred  will  join  us  at  Basle, 
and  we  shall  all  go  together  to  Vienna,  and  back 
by  Prague  —  " 

My  father  was  called  away  before  he  had  fin- 
ished his  sentence,  and  he  left  my  mind  resting  on 
the  word  Prague,  with  a  strange  sense  that  a  new 
and  wondrous  scene  was  breaking  upon  me :  a  city 
under  the  broad  sunshine,  that  seemed  to  me  as  if 
it  were  the  summer  sunshine  of  a  long-past  cen- 
tury arrested  in  its  course,  —  unrefreshed  for  ages 
by  the  dews  of  night  or  the  rushing  rain-cloud ; 
scorching  the  dusty,  weary,  time-eaten  grandeur 
of  a  people  doomed  to  live  on  in  the  stale  repeti- 
tion of  memories,  like  deposed  and  superannuated 
kings  in  their  regal  gold-inwoven  tatters.  The 
city  looked  so  thirsty  that  the  broad  river  seemed 
to  me  a  sheet  of  metal ;  and  the  blackened  statues, 
as  I  passed  under  their  blank  gaze,  along  the  un- 
ending bridge,  with  their  ancient  garments  and 
their  saintly  crowns,  seemed  to  me  the  real  inhabi- 
tants and  owners  of   this  place,  while  the  busy, 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  263 

trivial  men  and  women,  hurrying  to  and  fro,  were 
a  swarm  of  ephemeral  visitants  infesting  it  for  a 
day.  It  is  such  grim,  stony  beings  as  these,  I 
thought,  who  are  the  fathers  of  ancient  faded  chil- 
dren, in  those  tanned  time-fretted  dwellings  that 
crowd  the  steep  before  me ;  who  pay  their  court  in 
the  worn  and  crumbling  pomp  of  the  palace  which 
stretches  its  monotonous  length  on  the  height ; 
who  worship  wearily  in  the  stifling  air  of  the 
churches,  urged  by  no  fear  or  hope,  but  compelled 
by  their  doom  to  be  ever  old  and  undying,  to  live 
on  in  the  rigidity  of  habit,  as  they  live  on  in  per- 
petual mid-day,  without  the  repose  of  night  or  the 
new  birth  of  morning. 

A  stunning  clang  of  metal  suddenly  thrilled 
through  me,  and  I  became  conscious  of  the  objects 
in  my  room  again  :  one  of  the  fire-irons  had  fallen 
as  Pierre  opened  the  door  to  bring  me  my  draught. 
My  heart  was  palpitating  violently,  and  I  begged 
Pierre  to  leave  my  draught  beside  me ;  I  would 
take  it  presently. 

As  soon  as  I  was  alone  again,  I  began  to  ask 
myself  whether  I  had  been  sleeping.  Was  this 
a  dream,  —  this  wonderfully  distinct  vision,  — 
minute  in  its  distinctness  down  to  a  patch  of  rain- 
bow light  on  the  pavement,  transmitted  through 
a  coloured  lamp  in  the  shape  of  a  star,  —  of  a 
strange  city,  quite  unfamiliar  to  my  imagination  ? 
I  had  seen  no  picture  of  Prague  :  it  lay  in  my  mind 
as  a  mere  name,  with  vaguely  remembered  histori- 
cal associations,  — ill-defined  memories  of  imperial 
grandeur  and  religious  wars. 

Nothing  of  this  sort  had  ever  occurred  in  my 
dreaming  experience  before,  for  I  had  often  been 
humiliated  because  my  dreams  were  only  saved 


264  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

from  being  utterly  disjointed  and  commonplace  by 
the  frequent  terrors  of  nightmare.  But  I  could 
not  believe  that  I  had  been  asleep,  for  I  remem- 
bered distinctly  the  gradual  breaking-in  of  the 
vision  upon  me,  like  the  new  images  in  a  dissolv- 
ing view,  or  the  growing  distinctness  of  the  land- 
scape as  the  sun  lifts  V^-tL-thg^veil  of  the  morning 
,2aist.  And  while  I  was  conscious  of  this  incipient 
vision,  I  was  also  conscious  that  Pierre  came  to 
tell  my  father  Mr.  Filmore  was  waiting  for  him, 
and  that  my  father  hurried  out  of  the  room.  No, 
it  was  not  a  dream  ;  was  it,  —  the  thought  was 
full  of  tremulous  exultation,  — was  it  the  poet's 
nature  in  me,  hitherto  only  a  troubled  yearning 
sensibility,  now  manifesting  itself  suddenly  as 
spontaneous  creation  ?  Surely  it  was  in  this  way 
that  Homer  saw  the  plain  of  Troy,  that  Dante  saw 
the  abodes  of  the  departed,  that  Milton  saw  the 
earthward  flight  of  the  Tempter.  Was  it  that 
my  illness  had  wrought  some  happy  change  in 
my  organization,  —  given  a  firmer  tension  to  my 
nerves,  —  carried  off  some  dull  obstruction  ?  I 
had  often  read  of  such  effects,  — in  works  of  fiction 
at  least.  Nay  ;  in  genuine  biographies  I  had  read 
of  the  subtilizing  or  exalting  influence  of  some 
diseases  on  the  mental  powers.  Did  not  Novalis 
feel  his  inspiration  intensified  under  the  progress 
of  consumption  ? 

When  my  mind  had  dwelt  for  some  time  on  this 
blissful  idea,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  might  per- 
haps test  it  by  an  exertion  of  my  will.  The  vision 
had  begun  when  my  father  was  speaking  of  our 
going  to  Prague.  I  did  not  for  a  moment  believe 
it  was  really  a  representation  of  that  city ;  I 
believed  —  I   hoped   it   was   a   picture    that    my 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  265 

newly  liberated  genius  had  painted  in  fiery  haste, 
with  the  colours  snatched  from  lazy  memory. 
Suppose  I  were  to  fix  my  mind  on  some  other 
place,  — Venice,  for  example,  which  was  far  more 
familiar  'to  my  imagination  than  Prague  :  perhaps 
the  same  sort  of  result  would  follow.  I  concen- 
trated my  thoughts,  on  Venice ;  I  stimulated  my 
imagination  with  poetic  memories,  and  strove  to 
feel  myself  present  in  Venice,  as  I  had  felt  myself 
present  in  Prague.  But  in  Tain.  I  was  only 
colouring  the  Caualetto  engravings  that  hung  in 
my  old  bedroom  at  home ;  the  picture  was  a  shift- 
ing one,  my  mind  wandering  uncertainly  in  search 
of  more  vivid  images ;  I  could  see  no  accident  of 
form  or  shadow  without  conscious  labour  after  the 
necessary  conditions.  It  was  all  prosaic  effort, 
not  rapt  passivity,  such  as  I  had  experienced  half 
an  hour  before.  I  was  discouraged ;  but  I  remem- 
bered that  inspiration  was  fitful. 

For  several  days  I  was  in  a  state  of  excited 
expectation,  watching  for  a  recurrence  of  my  new 
gift.  I  sent  my  thoughts  ranging  over  my  world 
of  knowledge,  in  the  hope  that  they  would  find 
some  object  which  would  send  a  reawakening 
vibration  through  my  slumbering  genius.  But  no ; 
my  world  remained  as  dim  as  ever,  and  that  flash 
of  strange  light  refused  to  come  again,  though  I 
watched  for  it  with  palpitating  eagerness. 

My  father  accompanied  me  every  day  in  a  drive, 
and  a  gradually  lengthening  walk  as  my  powers  of 
walking  increased ;  and  one  evening  he  had  agreed 
to  come  and  fetch  me  at  twelve  the  next  day,  that 
we  might  go  together  to  select  a  musical  box,  and 
other  purchases  rigorously  demanded  of  a  rich 
Englishman  visiting  Geneva.     He  was  one  of  the 


266  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

most  punctual  of  men  and  bankers,  and  I  was 
always  nervously  anxious  to  be  quite  ready  for 
him  at  the  appointed  time.  But,  to  my  surprise, 
at  a  quarter  past  twelve  he  had  not  appeared.  I 
felt  all  the  impatience  of  a  convalescent  who  has 
nothing  particular  to  do,  and  who  has  just  taken  a 
tonic  in  the  prospect  of  immediate  exercise  that 
would  carry  off  the  stimulus. 

Unable  to  sit  still  and  reserve  my  strength,  I 
walked  up  and  down  the  room,  looking  out  on  the 
current  of  the  Ehone,  just  where  it  leaves  the  dark- 
blue  lake  ;  but  thinking  all  the  while  of  the  possible 
causes  that  could  detain  my  father. 

Suddenly  I  was  conscious  that  my  father  was  in 
the  room,  but  not'  alone :  there  were  two  persons 
with  him.  Strange !  I  had  heard  no  footstep,  I 
had  not  seen  the  door  open ;  but  I  saw  my  father, 
and  at  his  right  hand  our  neighbour  Mrs.  Filmore, 
whom  I  remembered  very  well,  though  I  had  not 
seen  her  for  five  years.  She  was  a  commonplace 
middle-aged  woman,  in  silk  and  cashmere ;  but  the 
lady  on  the  left  of  my  father  was  not  more  than 
twenty,  a  tall,  slim,  willowy  figure,  with  luxuriant 
blond  hair,  arranged  in  cunning  braids  and  folds 
that  looked  almost  too  massive  for  the  slight  figure 
and  the  small-featured,  thin-lipped  face  they  crowned. 
But  the  face  had  not  a  girlish  expression :  the  feat- 
ures were  sharp,  the  pale  gray  eyes  at  once  acute, 
restless,  and  sarcastic.  They  were  fixed  on  me  in 
half-smiling  curiosity,  and  I  felt  a  painful  sensation 
as  if  a  sharp  wind  were  cutting  me.  The  pale- 
green  dress,  and  the  green  leaves  that  seemed  to 
form  a  border  about  her  pale  blond  hair,  made  me 
think  of  a  Water-Nixie,  —  for  my  mind  was  full  of 
German   lyrics,  and   this   pale,   fatal-eyed   woman, 


THE  LIETED  VEIL.  267 

with  the  green  weeds,  looked  like  a  birth  from  some 
cold  sedgy  stream,  the  daughter  of  an  aged  river. 

"  Well,  Latimer,  you  thought  me  long,"  my  father   "* 
said.  ... 

But  while  the  last  word  was  in  my  ears,  the 
whole  group  vanished,  and  there  was  nothing  be- 
tween me  and  the  Chinese  painted  folding-screen 
that  stood  before  the  door.  I  was  cold  and  trem- 
bling ;  I  could  only  totter  forward  and  throw  my- 
self on  the  sofa.  This  strange  new  power  had 
manifested  itself  again.  .  .  .  But  was  it  a  power  ? 
Might  it  not  rather  be  a  disease,  —  a  sort  of  inter- 
mittent delirium,  concentrating  my  energy  of  brain 
into  moments  of  unhealthy  activity,  and  leaving 
my  saner  hours  all  the  more  barren  ?  I  felt  a  di^zy 
sense  of  unreahty  in  what  my  eye  rested  on ;  I 
grasped  the  bell  convulsively,  like  one  trying  to 
free  himself  from  nightmare,  and  rang  it  twice, 
Pierre  came  with  a  look  of  alarm  in  his  face. 

"  Monsieur  ne  se  trouve  pas  bien  ? "  he  said 
anxiously. 

"  I  'm  tired  of  waiting,  Pierre,"  I  said,  as  distinctly 
and  emphatically  as  I  could,  like  a  man  determined 
to  be  sober  in  spite  of  wine ;  "I'm  afraid  some- 
thing has  happened  to  my  father,  —  he  's  usually 
so  punctual.  Eun  to  the  Hotel  des  Bergues  and 
see  if  he  is  there." 

Pierre  left  the  room  at  once,  with  a  soothing 
"Bien,  Monsieur;"  and  I  felt  the  better  for  this 
scene  of  simple,  waking  prose.  Seeking  to  calm 
myself  still  further,  I  went  into  my  bedroom,  ad- 
joining the  salon,  and  opened  a  case  of  eau-de- 
Cologne  ;  took  out  a  bottle ;  went  through  the 
process  of  taking  out  the  cork  very  neatly,  and 
then  rubbed  the  re\iving  spirit  over  my  hands  and 


268  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

forehead,  and  under  my  nostrils,  drawing  a  new 
delight  from  the  scent  because  I  had  procured  it 
by  slow  details  of  labour,  and  by  no  strange  sudden 
madness.  Already  I  had  begun  to  taste  something 
of  the  horror  that  belongs  to  the  lot  of  a  human 
being  whose  nature  is  not  adjusted  to  simple  human 
conditions. 

Still  enjoying  the  scent,  I  returned  to  the  salon, 
but  it  was  not  unoccupied,  as  it  had  been  before  I 
left  it.  In  front  of  the  Chinese  folding-screen  there 
was  my  father,  with  Mrs.  Filmore  on  his  right  hand, 
and  on  his  left,  the  slim  blond-haired  girl,  with 
the  keen  face  and  the  keen  eyes  fixed  on  me  in 
half-smiling  curiosity. 

"  Well,  Latimer,  you  thought  me  long,"  my  father 
said.  .  .  . 

I  heard  no  more,  felt  no  more,  till  I  became 
conscious  that  I  was  lying  with  my  head  low  on 
the  sofa,  Pierre  and  my  father  by  my  side.  As 
soon  as  I  was  thoroughly  revived,  my  father  left 
the  room,  and  presently  returned,  saying,  — 

"  I  've  been  to  tell  the  ladies  how  you  are,  Lati- 
mer. They  were  waiting  in  the  next  room.  We 
shall  put  off  our  shopping  expedition  to-day." 

Presently  he  said,  "That  young  lady  is  Bertha 
Grant,  Mrs.  Filmore's  orphan  niece.  Filmore  has 
adopted  her,  and  she  lives  with  them,  so  you  will 
have  her  for  a  neighbour  when  we  go  home,  —  per- 
haps for  a  near  relation ;  for  there  is  a  tenderness 
between  her  and  Alfred,  I  suspect,  and  I  should  be 
gratified  by  the  match,  since  Filmore  means  to  pro- 
vide for  her  in  every  way  as  if  she  were  his  daughter. 
It  had  not  occurred  to  me  that  you  knew  nothing 
about  her  living  with  the  Filmores." 

He  made  no  further  allusion  to  the  fact  of  my 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  269 

having  fainted  at  the  moment  of  seeing  her,  and  I 
would  not  for  the  world  have  told  him  the  reason : 
I  shrank  from  the  idea  of  disclosing  to  any  one  what 
might  be  regarded  as  a  pitiable  peculiarity,  most  of 
all  from  betraying  it  to  ray  father,  who  would  have 
suspected  my  sanity  ever  after. 

I  do  not  mean  to  dwell  with  particularity  on  the 
details  of  my  experience.  I  have  described  these 
two  cases  at  length,  because  they  had  definite, 
clearly  traceable  results  in  my  after-lot. 

Shortly  after  this  last  occurrence  —  I  think  the 
very  next  day  —  I  began  to  be  aware  of  a  phase  in 
my  abnormal  sensibility,  to  which,  from  the  lan- 
guid and  slight  nature  of  my  intercourse  with  others 
since  my  illness,  I  had  not  been  alive  before.  This 
was  the  obtrusion  on  my  mind  of  the  mental  process 
going  forward  in  first  one  person,  and  then  another, 
with  whom  I  happened  to  be  in  contact:  the  va- 
grant, frivolous  ideas  and  emotions  of  some  uninter- 
esting acquaintance  —  Mrs.  Filmore,  for  example  — 
would  force  thems&lves  on  my  consciousness  like  an 
importunate,  ill-played  musical  instrument,  or  the 
loud  activity  of  an  imprisoned  insect.  But  this  un- 
pleasant sensibility  was  fitful,  and  left  me  moments 
of  rest,  when  the  souls  of  my  companions  were  once 
more  shut  out  from  me,  and  I  felt  a  relief  such  as 
silence  brings  to  wearied  nerves.  I  might  have 
believed  this  importunate  insight  to  be  merely  a 
diseased  activity  of  the  imagination,  but  that  my 
prevision  of  incalculable  words  and  actions  proved  it 
to  have  a  fixed  relation  to  the  mental  process  in  other 
minds.  But  this  superadded  consciousness,  weary- 
ing and  annoying  enough  when  it  urged  on  me  the 
trivial  experience  of  indifferent  people,  became  ah 
intense  pain  and  grief  when  it  seemed  to  be  opening 


270  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

to  me  the  souls  of  those  who  were  in  a  close  relation 
to  me,  —  when  the  rational  talk,  the  graceful  atten- 
tions, the  wittily  turned  phrases,  and  the  kindly 
deeds,  which  used  to  make  the  web  of  their  charac- 
ters, were  seen  as  if  thrust  asunder  by  a  microscopic 
vision,  that  showed  all  the  intermediate  frivolities, 
all  the  suppressed  egoism,  all  the  struggling  chaos 
of  puerilities,  meanness,  vague  capricious  memories, 
and  indolent  make-shift  thoughts,  from  which  hu- 
man words  and  deeds  emerge  like  leaflets  covering 
a  fermenting  heap. 

At  Basle  we  were  joined  by  my  brother  Alfred,  now 
a  handsome  self-confident  man  of  six-and-twenty,  — 
a  thorough  contrast  to  my  fragile,  nervous,  ineffect- 
ual self.  I  believe  I  was  held  to  have  a  sort  of 
half-womanish,  half-ghostly  beauty ;  for  the  portrait- 
painters,  who  are  thick  as  weeds  at  Geneva,  had 
often  asked  me  to  sit  to  them,  and  I  had  been  the 
model  of  a  dying  minstrel  in  a  fancy  picture.  But  I 
thoroughly  disliked  my  own  physique,  and  nothing 
but  the  belief  that  it  was  a  condition  of  poetic  genius 
would  have  reconciled  me  to  it.  That  brief  hope 
was  quite  fled,  and  I  saw  in  my  face  now  nothing 
but  the  stamp  of  a  morbid  organization,  framed  for 
passive  suffering,  —  too  feeble  for  the  sublime  resist- 
ance of  poetic  production.  Alfred,  from  whom  I 
had  been  almost  constantly  separated,  and  who,  in 
his  present  stage  of  character  and  appearance,  came 
before  me  as  a  perfect  stranger,  was  bent  on  being 
extremely  friendly  and  brother-like  to  me.  He  had 
the  superficial  kindness  of  a  good-humoured,  self- 
satisfied  nature,  that  fears  no  rivalry,  and  has  en- 
countered no  contrarieties.  I  am  not  sure  that  my 
disposition  was  good  enough  for  me  to  have  been 
quite   free   from   envy   towards   him,  even   if   our 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  271 

desires  had  not  clashed,  and  if  I  had  been  in  the 
healthy  human  condition  which  admits  of  gener- 
ous confidence  and  charitable  construction.  There 
must  always  have  been  an  antipathy  between  our 
natures.  As  it  was,  he  became  in  a  few  weeks  an 
object  of  intense  hatred  to  me ;  and  when  he  en- 
tered the  room,  still  more  when  he  spoke,  it  was  as 
if  a  sensation  of  grating  metal  had  set  my  teeth 
on  edge.  My  diseased  consciousness  was  more  in-k 
tensely  and  contmually  occupied  with  his  thoughts! 
and  emotions  than  with  those  of  any  other  person 
who  came  in  my  way.  I  was  perpetually  exasper- 
ated with  the  petty  promptings  of  his  conceit  and  his 
love  of  patronage,  with  his  self-complacent  belief  in 
Bertha  Grant's  passion  for  him,  with  his  half-pitying 
contempt  for  me  —  seen  not  in  the  ordinary  indica- 
tions of  intonation  and  phrase  and  slight  action, 
which  an  acute  and  suspicious  mind  is  on  the  watch 
for,  but  in  all  their  naked  skinless  complication. 

For  we  were  rivals,  and  our  desires  clashed, 
though  he  was  not  aware  of  it.  I  have  said  noth- 
ing yet  of  the  effect  Bertha  Grant  produced  in  me 
on  a  nearer  acquaintance.  That  effect  was  chiefly 
determined  by  the  fact  that  she  made  the  only  ex- 
ception, among  all  the  human  beings  about  me, 
to  my  unhappy  gift  of  insight.  About  Bertha  T 
was  always  in  a  state  of  uncertainty :  I  could 
watch  the  expression  of  her  face,  and  speculate  on 
its  meaning ;  I  could  ask  for  her  opinion  with 
the  real  interest  of  ignorance  ;  I  could  listen  for 
her  words  and  watch  for  her  smile  with  hope  and 
fear :  she  had  for  me  the  fascination  of  an  un- 
ravelled destiny.  I  say  it  was  this  fact  that  chiefly 
determined  the  strong  effect  she  produced  on  me  : 
for,  in  the   abstract,  no  womanly  character  could 


272  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

seem  to  have  less  affinity  for  that  of  a  shrinking, 
romantic,  passionate  youth  than  Bertha's.  She  was 
keen,  sarcastic,  unimaginative,  prematurely  cynical, 
remaining  critical  and  unmoved  in  the  most  im- 
pressive scenes,  inclined  to  dissect  all  my  favourite 
poems,  and  especially  contemptuous  towards  the 
German  lyrics  which  were  my  pet  literature  at 
that  time.  To  this  moment  I  am  unable  to  define 
my  feeling  towards  her :  it  was  not  ordinary  boy- 
ish admiration,  for  she  was  the  very  opposite, 
even  to  the  colour  of  her  hair,  of  the  ideal  woman 
who  still  remained  to  me  the  type  of  loveliness  ; 
and  she  was  without  that  enthusiasm  for  the  great 
and  good,  which,  even  at  the  moment  of  her  strong- 
est dominion  over  me,  I  should  have  declared  to 
be  the  highest  element  of  character.  But  there 
is  no  tyranny  more  complete  than  that  which  a 
self-centred  negative  nature  exercises  over  a  mor- 
bidly sensitive  nature  perpetually  craving  sympathy 
and  support.  The  most  independent  people  feel  the 
effect  of  a  man's  silence  in  heightening  their  value 
for  his  opinion,  —  feel  an  additional  triumph  in 
conquering  the  reverence  of  a  critic  habitually  cap- 
tious and  satirical :  no  wonder,  then,  that  an  enthu- 
siastic self-distrusting  youth  should  watch  and  wait 
before  the  closed  secret  of  a  sarcastic  woman's  face, 
as  if  it  were  the  shrine  of  the  doubtfully  benignant 
deity  who  ruled  his  destiny.  For  a  young  enthu- 
siast is  unable  to  imagine  the  total  negation  in 
another  mind  of  the  emotions  which  are  stirring 
his  own :  they  may  be  feeble,  latent,  inactive,  he 
thinks,  but  they  are  there,  —  they  may  be  called 
forth ;  sometimes,  in  moments  of  happy  halluci- 
nation, he  believes  they  may  be  there  in  all  the 
greater  strength  because  he  sees  no  outward  sign 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  273 

of  them.  And  this  effect,  as  I  have  intimated, 
was  heightened  to  its  utmost  intensity  in  me,  be- 
cause Bertha  was  the  only  being  who  remained  for 
me  in  the  mysterious  seclusion  of  soul  that  renders 
such  youthful  delusion  possible.  Doubtless  there 
was  another  sort  of  fascination  at  work,  —  that  sub- 
tle physical  attraction  which  delights  in  cheating 
our  psychological  predictions,  and  in  compelling 
the  men  who  paint  sylphs  to  fall  in  love  with  some 
honne  et  hrave  femme,  heavy-heeled  and  freckled. 

Bertha's  behaviour  towards  me  was  such  as  to 
encourage  all  my  illusions,  to  heighten  my  boyish 
passion,  and  make  me  more  and  more  dependent 
on  her  smiles.  Looking  back  with  my  present 
wretched  knowledge,  I  conclude  that  her  vanity 
and  love  of  power  were  intensely  gratified  by  the 
belief  that  I  had  fainted  on  first  seeing  her  purely 
from  the  strong  impression  her  person  had  pro- 
duced on  me.  The  most  prosaic  woman  likes  to 
believe  herself  the  object  of  a  violent,  a  poetic 
passion;  and  without  a  grain  of  romance  in  her, 
Bertha  had  that  spirit  of  intrigue  which  gave  pi- 
quancy to  the  idea  that  the  brother  of  the  man  she 
meant  to  marry  was  dying  with  love  and  jealousy 
for  her  sake.  That  she  meant  to  marry  my  brother 
was  what  at  that  time  1  did  not  believe  ;  for  though 
he  was  assiduous  in  his  attentions  to  her,  and  I 
knew  well  enough  that  both  he  and  my  father  had 
made  up  their  minds  to  this  result,  there  was  not 
yet  an  understood  engagement,  —  there  had  been 
no  explicit  declaration;  and  Bertha  habitually, 
while  she  flirted  with  my  brother,  and  accepted 
his  homage  in  a  way  that  implied  to  him  a  thorough 
recognition  of  its  intention,  made  me  believe,  by 
the  subtlest  looks  and  phrases,  —  feminine  nothings 


274  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

which  could  never  be  quoted  against  her,  —  that 
he  was  really  the  object  of  her  secret  ridicule ;  that 
she  thought  him,  as  I  did,  a  coxcomb,  whom   she 

jyould    have    pleasure   in    disappointing.      Me    she 

openly  petted  in  my  brother's  presence,  as  if  I  were 
too  young  and  sickly  ever  to  be  thought  of  as  a 
lover ;  and  that  was  the  view  he  took  of  me.  But 
I  believe  she  must  inwardly  have  delighted  in  the 
tremors  into  which  she  threw  me  by  the  coaxing 
way  in  which  she  patted  my  curls,  while  she 
laughed  at  my  quotations.  Such  caresses  were 
always  given  in  the  presence  of  our  friends ;  for 
when  we  were  alone  together,  she  affected  a  much 
greater  distance  towards  me,  and  now  and  then 
took  the  opportunity,  by  words  or  slight  actions, 
to  stimulate  my  foolish  timid  hope  that  she  really 
preferred  me.  And  why  should  slie  not  follow  her 
inclination  ?  I  was  not  in  so  advantageous  a  posi- 
tion as  my  brother,  but  I  had  fortune,  I  was  not  a 
year  younger  than  she  was,  and  she  was  an  heiress, 
who  would  soon  be  of  age  to  decide  for  herself. 

The  fluctuations  of  hope  and  fear,  confined  to  this 
one  channel,  made  each  day  in  her  presence  a  deli- 
cious torment.  There  was  one  deliberate  act  of  hers 
which  especially  helped  to  intoxicate  me.  When 
we  were  at  Vienna  her  twentieth  birthday  occurred, 
and  as  she  w^as  very  fond  of  ornaments,  we  all  took 
the  opportunity  of  the  splendid  jewellers'  shops  in 
that  Teutonic  Paris  to  purchase  her  a  birthday 
present  of  jewelry.  Mine,  naturally,  was  the  least 
expensive  ;  it  was  an  opal  ring,  —  the  opal  was  my 
favourite  stone,  because  it  seems  to  blush  and  turn 
-  pale  as  if  it  had  a  souL  I  told  Bertha  so  when  I 
gave  it  her,  and  said  that  it  was  an  emblem  of  the 
poetic  nature,  changing  with  the  changing  light  of 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  275 

heaven  and  of  woman's  eyes.  In  the  evening  she 
appeared  elegantly  dressed,  and  wearing  conspicu- 
ously all  the  birthday  presents  except  mine.  I 
looked  eagerly  at  her  lingers,  but  saw  no  opal.  I 
had  no  opportunity  of  noticing  this  to  her  during 
the  evening ;  but  the  next  day,  when  I  found  her 
seated  near  the  window  alone,  after  breakfast,  I 
said  :  "  You  scorn  to  wear  my  poor  opal.  I  should 
have  remembered  that  you  despised  poetic  natures, 
and  should  have  given  you  coral,  or  turquoise,  or 
some  other  opaque  unresponsive  stone."  "  Do  I 
despise  it  ? "  she  answered,  taking  hold  of  a  delicate 
gold  chain  which  she  always  wore  round  her  neck 
and  drawing  out  the  end  from  her  bosom  with  my 
ring  hangmg  to  it ;  "  it  hurts  me  a  little,  I  can  tell 
you,"  she  said,  with  her  usual  dubious  smile,  "to 
wear  it  in  that  secret  place  ;  and  since  your  poetical 
nature  is  so  stupid  as  to  prefer  a  more  public 
position,  I  shall  not  endure  the  pain  any  longer." 

She  took  off  the  ring  from  the  chain  and  put  it 
on  her  finger,  smiling  still,  while  the  blood  rushed 
to  my  cheeks,  and  I  could  not  trust  myself  to  say 
a  word  of  entreaty  that  she  would  keep  the  ring 
where  it  was  before. 

I  was  completely  fooled  by  this,  and  for  two  days 
shut  myself  up  in  my  own  room  whenever  Bertha 
was  absent,  that  I  might  intoxicate  myself  afresh 
with  the  thought  of  this  scene  and  all  it  implied. 

I  should  mention  that  during  these  two  months, 
—  which  seemed  a  long  life  to  me  from  the  novelty 
and  intensity  of  the  pleasures  and  pains  I  under- 
went, —  my  diseased  participation  in  other  people's 
consciousness  continued  to  torment  me ;  now  it 
was  my  father,  and  now  my  brother,  now  Mrs. 
Filmore   or   her   husband,   and    now   our   German 


276  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

courier,  whose  stream  of  thought  rushed  upon  me  / 
like  a  ringing  in  the  ears  not  to  be  got  rid  of,  though 
it  allowed  my  own  impulses  and  ideas  to  continue 
their  uninterrupted  course.  It  was  like  a  preternat- 
urally  heightened  sense  of  hearing,  making  audible 
to  one  a  roar  of  sound  where  others  find  perfect  still- 
ness. The  weariness  and  disgust  of  this  involuntary 
intrusion  into  other  souls  was  counteracted  only  by 
my  ignorance  of  Bertha,  and  my  growing  passion 
for  her,  —  a  passion  enormously  stimulated,  if  not 
produced,  by  that  ignorance.  She  was  my  oasis  of 
mystery  in  the  dreary  desert  of  knowledge.  I  had 
never  allowed  my  diseased  condition  to  betray  itself, 
or  to  drive  me  into  any  unusual  speech  or  action, 
except  once,  when,  in  a  moment  of  peculiar  bitter- 
ness against  my  brother,  I  had  forestalled  some 
words  which  I  knew  he  was  going  to  utter,  —  a 
clever  observation,  which  he  had  prepared  before- 
hand. He  had  occasionally  a  slightly  affected 
hesitation  in  his  speech,  and  when  he  paused  an 
instant  after  the  second  word,  my  impatience  and 
jealousy  impelled  me  to  continue  the  speech  for 
him,  as  if  it  were  something  we  had  both  learned 
by  rote.  He  coloured  and  looked  astonished,  as  well 
as  annoyed ;  and  the  words  had  no  sooner  escaped 
my  lips  than  I  felt  a  shock  of  alarm  lest  such  an 
anticipation  of  words  —  very  far  from  being  words 
of  course,  easy  to  divine  —  should  have  betrayed 
me  as  an  exceptional  being,  a  sort  of  quiet  energu- 
men,  whom  every  one,  Bertha  above  all,  would 
shudder  at  and  avoid.  But  I  magnified,  as  usual, 
the  impression  any  word  or  deed  of  mine  could 
produce  on  others;  for  no  one  gave  any  sign  of 
having  noticed  my  interruption  as  more  than  a 
rudeness,  to  be  forgiven  me  on  the  score  of  my 
feeble  nervous  condition. 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  277 

While  this  superadded  consciousness  of  the  actual 
was  almost  constant  with  me,  I  had  never  had  a 
recurrence  of  that  distinct  prevision  which  I  have 
described  in  relation  to  my  first  interview  with 
Bertha ;  and  I  was  waiting  with  eager  curiosity  to 
know  whether  or  not  my  vision  of  Prague  would 
prove  to  have  been  an  instance  of  the  same  kind. 
A  few  days  after  the  incident  of  the  opal  ring, 
we  were  paying  one  of  our  frequent  visits  to  the 
Lichtenberg  Palace.  I  could  never  look  at  many  pic- 
tures in  succession ;  for  pictures,  when  they  are  at 
all  powerful,  affect  me  so  strongly  that  one  or  two 
exhaust  all  my  capability  of  contemplation.  This 
morning  I  had  been  looking  at  Giorgione's  picture 
of  the  cruel-eyed  woman,  said  to  be  a  likeness  of 
Lucrezia  Borgia.  I  had  stood  long  alone  before  it, 
fascinated  by  the  terrible  reality  of  that  cunning, 
relentless  face,  till  I  felt  a  strange  poisoned  sensa- 
tion, as  if  I  had  long  been  inhaling  a  fatal  odour, 
and  was  just  beginning  to  be  conscious  of  its  effects. 
Perhaps  even  then  I  should  not  have  moved  away, 
if  the  rest  of  the  party  had  not  returned  to  this 
room,  and  announced  that  they  were  going  to  the 
Belvedere  Gallery  to  settle  a  bet  which  had  arisen 
between  my  brother  and  Mr.  Filmore  about  a  por- 
trait. I  followed  them  dreamily,  and  was  hardly 
alive  to  what  occurred  till  they  had  all  gone  up  to 
the  gallery,  leaving  me  below;  for  I  refused  to 
come  within  sight  of  another  picture  that  day.  I 
made  my  way  to  the  Grand  Terrace,  since  it  was 
agreed  that  we  should  saunter  in  the  gardens  when 
the  dispute  had  been  decided.  I  had  been  sitting 
here  a  short  space,  vaguely  conscious  of  trim  gardens, 
with  a  city  and  green  hills  in  the  distance,  when, 
wishing  to  avoid  the  proximity  of  the  sentinel,  I 


278  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

rose  and  walked  down  the  broad  stone  steps,  intend- 
ing to  seat  myself  farther  on  in  the  gardens.  Just 
as  I  reached  the  gravel-walk,  I  felt  an  arm  slipped 
within  mine,  and  a  light  hand  gently  pressing  my 
wrist.  In  the  same  instant  a  strange  intoxicating 
numbness  passed  over  me,  like  the  continuance  or 
climax  of  the  sensation  I  was  still  feeling  from 
the  gaze  of  Lucrezia  Borgia.  The  gardens,  the  sum- 
mer sky,  the  consciousness  of  Bertha's  arm  being 
within  mine,  all  vanished,  and  I  seemed  to  be  sud- 
denly in  darkness,  out  of  which  there  gradually 
broke  a  dim  firelight,  and  I  felt  myself  sitting  in 
my  father's  leather  chair  in  the  library  at  home.  I 
knew  the  fireplace,  —  the  dogs  for  the  wood-fire,  — 
the  black  marble  chimney-piece  with  the  white 
marble  medallion  of  the  dying  Cleopatra  in  tlie 
centre.  Intense  and  hopeless  misery  was  pressing 
on  my  soul ;  the  light  became  stronger,  for  Bertha 
was  entering  with  a  candle  in  her  hand,  —  Bertha, 
my  wife,  —  with  cruel  eyes,  with  green  jewels  and 
green  leaves  on  her  white  ball-dress ;  every  hateful 
thought  within  her  present  to  me.  ..."  Madman, 
idiot !  why  don't  you  kill  yourself,  then  ?  "-—  It  was 
a  moment  of  hell.  I  saw  into  her  pitiless  soul,  — 
saw  its  barren  worldliness,  its  scorching  hate,  —  and 
felt  it  clothe  me  round  like  an  air  I  was  obliged  to 
breathe.  She  came  with  her  candle  and  stood  over 
me  with  a  bitter  smile  of  contempt ;  I  saw  the  great 
emerald  brooch  on  her  bosom,  a  studded  serpent 
with  diamond  eyes.  I  shuddered,  —  I  despised  this 
woman  with  the  barren  soul  and  mean  thoughts; 
but  I  felt  helpless  before  her,  as  if  she  clutched  my  / 
bleeding  heart,  and  would  clutch  it  till  the  last  / 
drop  of  life-blood  ebbed  away.  She  was  my  wifcj 
and  we  hated  each  other.     Gradually  the   hearth, 


THE  LUTED  VEIL.  279 

the  dim  library,  the  candle-light  disappeared,  — 
seemed  to  melt  away  into  a  background  of  light, 
the  green  serpent  with  the  diamond  eyes  remaining 
a  dark  image  on  the  retina.  Then  I  had  a  sense 
of  my  eyelids  quivering,  and  the  living  daylight 
broke  in  upon  me ;  I  saw  gardens,  and  heard  voices ; 
I  was  seated  on  the  steps  of  the  Belvedere  Terrace, 
and  my  friends  were  round  me. 

The  tumult  of  mind  into  which  I  was  thrown  by 
this  hideous  vision  made  me  ill  for  several  days, 
and  prolonged  our  stay  at  Vienna.  I  shuddered 
with  horror  as  the  scene  recurred  to  me ;  and  it 
recurred  constantly,  with  all  its  minutise,  as  if  they 
had  been  burnt  into  my  memory ;  and  yet,  such  is 
the  madness  of  the  human  heart  under  the  influence 
of  its  immediate  desires,  I  felt  a  wild  hell-braving 
joy  that  Bertha  was  to  be  mine ;  for  the  fulfilment 
of  my  former  prevision  concerning  her  first  appear- 
ance before  me,  left  me  little  hope  that  this  last 
hideous  glimpse  of  the  future  was  the  mere  diseased 
play  of  my  own  mind,  and  had  no  relation  to  ex- 
ternal realities.  One  thing  alone  I  looked  towards 
as  a  possible  means  of  casting  doubt  on  my  terrible 
conviction,  —  the  discovery  that  my  vision  of  Prague 
had  been  false,  —  and  Prague  was  the  next  city  on 
our  route. 

Meanwliile  I  was  no  sooner  in  Bertha's  society 
again,  than  I  was  as  completely  under  her  sway  as 
before.  What  if  I  saw  into  the  heart  of  Bertha, 
the  matured  woman,  —  Bertha,  my  wife  ?  Bertha, 
the  girl,  was  a  fascinating  secret  to  me  still :  I 
trembled  under  her  touch;  I  felt  the  witchery  of 
her  presence ;  I  yearned  to  be  assured  of  her  love. 
The  fear  of  poison  is  feeble  against  the  sense  of 
thirst.     Nay,  I  was  just  as  jealous  of  my  brother  as 


28o  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

before,  —  just  as  much  irritated  by  his  small  patro- 
nizing ways ;  for  my  pride,  my  diseased  sensibility, 
were  there  as  they  had  always  been,  and  winced  as 
inevitably  under  every  offence  as  my  eye  winced 
from  an  intruding  mote.  The  future,  even  when 
brought  within  the  compass  of  feeling  by  a  vision 
that  made  me  shudder,  had  still  no  more  than  the 
force  of  an  idea,  compared  with  the  force  of  present 
emotion,  —  of  my  love  for  Bertha,  of  my  dislike 
and  jealousy  towards  my  brother. 

It  is  an  old  story,  that  men  sell  themselves  to  the 
tempter,  and  sign  a  bond  with  their  blood,  because 
it  is  only  to  take  effect  at  a  distant  day  ;  then  rush 
on  to  snatch  the  cup  their  souls  thirst  after  with 
an  impulse  not  the  less  savage  because  there  is  a 
dark  shadow  beside  them  forevermore.  There  is  no 
short  cut,  no  patent  tram-road  to  wisdom  :  after  all 
the  centuries  of  invention,  the  soul's  path  lies 
through  the  thorny  wilderness  which  must  be  still 
trodden  in  solitude,  with  bleeding  feet,  with  sobs 
for  help,  as  it  was  trodden  by  them  of  old  time. 

My  mind  speculated  eagerly  on  the  means  by 
which  I  should  become  my  brother's  successful 
rival,  for  I  was  still  too  timid,  in  my  ignorance  of 
Bertha's  actual  feeling,  to  venture  on  any  step  that 
would  urge  from  her  an  avowal  of  it.  I  thought  I 
should  gain  confidence  even  for  this,  if  my  vision 
of  Prague  proved  to  have  been  veracious ;  and  yet, 
the  horror  of  that  certitude  !  Behind  the  slim  girl 
Bertha,  whose  words  and  looks  I  watched  for, 
whose  touch  was  bliss,  there  stood  continually  that 
Bertha  with  the  fuller  form,  the  harder  eyes,  the 
more  rigid  mouth,  —  with  the  barren  selfish  soul 
laid  bare  ;  no  longer  a  fascinating  secret,  but  a  meas- 
ured fact,  urging  itself  perpetually  on  my  unwilling 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  281 

sight.  Are  you  unable  to  give  me  your  sympathy, 
—  you  who  read  this  ?  Are  you  unable  to  imagine 
this  double  consciousness  at  work  within  me,  flow- 
ing on  like  two  parallel  streams  which  never  mingle 
their  waters  and  blend  into  a  common  hue  ?  Yet 
you  must  have  known  something  of  the  presenti- 
ments that  spring  from  an  insight  at  war  with  pas- 
sion ;  and  my  visions  were  only  like  presentiments 
intensified  to  horror.  You  have  known  the  pow- 
erlessness  of  ideas  before  the  might  of  impulse; 
and  my  visions,  when  once  they  had  passed  into 
memory,  were  mere  ideas,  —  pale  shadows  that 
beckoned  in  vain,  while  my  hand  was  grasped  by 
the  living  and  the  loved. 

In  after  days  I  thought  with  bitter  regret  that 
if  I  had  foreseen  something  more  or  something 
different,  —  if  instead  of  that  hideous  vision  which 
poisoned  the  passion  it  could  not  destroy,  or  if  even 
along  with  it  I  could  have  had  a  foreshadowing  of 
that  moment  when  I  looked  on  my  brother's  face 
for  the  last  time,  some  softening  influence  would 
have  been  shed  over  my  feeling  towards  him :  pride 
and  hatred  would  surely  have  been  subdued  into 
pity,  and  the  record  of  those  hidden  sins  would 
have  been  shortened.  But  this  is  one  of  the  vain 
thoughts  with  which  we  men  flatter  ourselves. 
We  try  to  believe  that  the  egoism  within  us  would 
have  easily  been  melted,  and  that  it  was  only  the 
narrowness  of  our  knowledge  which  hemmed  in  our 
generosity,  our  awe,  our  human  piety,  and  hindered 
them  from  submerging  our  hard  indifference  to  the 
sensations  and  emotions  of  our  fellow.  Our  tender- 
ness and  self-renunciation  seem  strong  when  our 
egoism  has  had  its  day,  —  when,  after  our  mean 
striving  for  a  triumph  that  is  to  be  another's  loss, 


282  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

the  triumph  comes  suddenly,  and  we  shudder  at  it, 
because  it  is  held  out  by  the  chill  hand  of  death. 

Our  arrival  in  Prague  happened  at  night,  and  I 
was  glad  of  this,  for  it  seemed  like  a  deferring  of  a 
terribly  decisive  moment,  to  be  in  the  city  for  hours 
without  seeing  it.  As  we  were  not  to  remain  long 
in  Prague,  but  to  go  on  speedily  to  Dresden,  it  was 
proposed  that  we  should  drive  out  the  next  morning 
and  take  a  general  view  of  the  place,  as  well  as  visit 
some  of  its  specially  interesting  spots,  before  the 
heat  became  oppressive,  —  for  we  were  in  August, 
and  the  season  was  hot  and  dry.  But  it  happened 
that  the  ladies  were  rather  late  at  their  morning 
toilet,  and  to  my  father's  politely  repressed  but  per- 
ceptible annoyance,  we  were  not  in  the  carriage  till 
the  morning  was  far  advanced.  I  thought  with  a 
sense  of  relief,  as  we  entered  the  Jews'  quarter, 
where  we  were  to  visit  the  old  synagogue,  that  we 
should  be  kept  in  this  flat,  shut-up  part  of  the  city, 
until  we  should  all  be  too  tired  and  too  warm  to  go 
farther,  and  so  we  should  return  without  seeing 
more  than  the  streets  through  which  we  had  already 
passed.  That  would  give  me  another  day's  suspense, 
—  suspense,  the  only  form  in  which  a  fearful  spirit 
knows  the  solace  of  hope.  But  as  I  stood  under 
the  blackened,  groined  arches  of  that  old  synagogue, 
made  dimly  visible  by  the  seven  thin  candles  in  the 
sacred  lamp,  while  our  Jewish  cicerone  reached 
down  the  Book  of  the  Law,  and  read  to  us  in  its 
ancient  tongue,  —  I  felt  a  shuddering  impression 
that  this  strange  building,  with  its  shrunken  lights, 
this  surviving  withered  remnant  of  medieval  Juda- 
ism, was  of  a  piece  with  my  vision.  Those  darkened 
dusty  Christian  saints,  with  their  loftier  arches  and 
their  larger  candles,  needed  the  consolatory  scorn 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  283 

with  which  they  might  point  to  a  more  shrivelled 
death-in-life  than  their  own. 

As  I  expected,  when  we  left  the  Jews'  quarter  the 
elders  of  our  party  wished  to  return  to  the  hotel. 
But  now,  instead  of  rejoicing  in  this,  as  I  had  done 
beforehand,  I  felt  a  sudden  overpowering  impulse 
to  go  on  at  once  to  the  bridge,  and  put  an  end  to  the 
suspense  I  had  been  wishing  to  protract.  I  declared, 
with  unusual  decision,  that  I  would  get  out  of  the 
carriage  and  walk  on  alone ;  they  might  return 
without  me.  My  father,  thinking  this  merely  a 
sample  of  my  usual  "  poetic  nonsense,"  objected  that 
I  should  only  do  myself  harm  by  walking  in  the 
heat ;  but  when  I  persisted,  he  said  angrily  that  I 
might  follow  my  own  absurd  devices,  but  that 
Schmidt  (our  courier)  must  go  with  me.  I  assented 
to  this,  and  set  off  with  Schmidt  towards  the  bridge. 
I  had  no  sooner  passed  from  under  the  archway  of 
the  grand  old  gate  leading  on  to  the  bridge,  than  a 
trembling  seized  me,  and  I  turned  cold  under  the 
mid-day  sun ;  yet  I  went  on :  I  was  in  search  of 
something,  —  a  small  detail  which  I  remembered 
with  special  intensity  as  part  of  my  vision.  There 
it  was,  —  the  patch  of  rainbow  light  on  the  pavement 
transmitted  through  a  lamp  in  the  shape  of  a  star. 


CHAPTEK  II. 

Befoee  the  autumn  was  at  an  end,  and  while  the 
brown  leaves  still  stood  thick  on  the  beeches  in  our 
park,  my  brother  and  Bertha  were  engaged  to  each 
other,  and  it  was  understood  that  their  marriage  was 
to  take  place  early  in  the  next  spring.  In  spite  of 
the  certainty  I  had  felt  from  that  moment  on  the 
bridge  at  Prague,  that  Bertha  would  one  day  be  my 
wife,  my  constitutional  timidity  and  distrust  had 
continued  to  benumb  me,  and  the  words  in  which  I 
had  sometimes  premeditated  a  confession  of  my  love 
had  died  away  unuttered.  The  same  conflict  had 
gone  on  within  me  as  before,  —  the  longing  for  an 
assurance  of  love  from  Bertha's  lips,  the  dread  lest 
a  word  of  contempt  and  denial  should  fall  upon  me 
like  a  corrosive  acid.  What  was  the  conviction  of  a 
distant  necessity  to  me  ?  I  trembled  under  a  pres- 
ent glance,  I  hungered  after  a  present  joy,  I  was 
clogged  and  chilled  by  a  present  fear.  And  so  the 
days  passed  on :  I  witnessed  Bertha's  engagement 
and  heard  her  marriage  discussed  as  if  I  were  under 
a  conscious  nightmare,  —  knowing  it  was  a  dream 
that  would  vanish,  but  feeling  stifled  under  the 
grasp  of  hard-clutching  fingers. 

When  I  was  not  in  Bertha's  presence,  —  and  I 
was  with  her  very  often,  for  she  continued  to  treat 
me  with  a  playful  patronage  that  wakened  no  jeal- 
ousy in  my  brother,  —  I  spent  my  time  chiefly  in 
wandering,  in  strolling,  or  taking  long  rides  while 
the  daylight  lasted,  and  then  shutting  myself   up 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  285 

with  my  unread  books ;  for  books  had  lost  the 
power  of  chaining  my  attention.  My  self-con- 
sciousness was  heightened  to  that  pitch  of  intensity 
in  which  our  own  emotions  take  the  form  of  a 
drama  which  urges  itself  imperatively  on  our  con- 
templation, and  we  begin  to  weep,  less  under  the 
sense  of  our  suffering  than  at  the  thought  of  it.  I 
felt  a  sort  of  pitying  anguish  over  the  pathos  of 
my  own  lot :  the  lot  of  a  being  finely  organized  for 
pain,  but  with  hardly  any  fibres  that  responded  to 
pleasure,  —  to  whom  the  idea  of  future  evil  robbed 
the  present  of  its  joy,  and  for  whom  the  idea  of 
future  good  did  not  still  the  uneasiness  of  a  pres- 
ent yearning  or  a  present  dread.  I  went  dumbly 
through  that  stage  of  the  poet's  suffering,  in  which 
he  feels  the  delicious  pang  of  utterance,  and  makes 
an  image  of  his  sorrows, 

I  was  left  entirely  without  remonstrance  concern- 
ing this  dreamy  wayward  life :  I  knew  my  father's 
thought  about  me :  "  That  lad  will  never  be  good 
for  anything  in  life :  he  may  waste  his  years  in  an 
insignificant  way  on  the  income  that  falls  to  him : 
I  shall  not  trouble  myself  about  a  career  for  him." 

One  mild  morning  in  the  beginning  of  November, 
it  happened  that  I  was  standing  outside  the  portico 
patting  lazy  old  Caesar,  a  Newfoundland  almost 
blind  with  age,  the  only  dog  that  ever  took  any 
notice  of  me,  —  for  the  very  dogs  shunned  me,  and 
fawned  on  the  happier  people  about  me,  —  when 
the  groom  brought  up  my  brother's  horse  which 
was  to  carry  him  to  the  hunt,  and  my  brother  him- 
self appeared  at  the  door,  florid,  broad-chested,  and 
self-complacent,  feeling  what  a  good-natured  fellow 
he  was  not  to  behave  insolently  to  us  all  on  the 
strength  of  his  great  advantages. 


286  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

"  Latimer,  old  boy,"  he  said  to  me  in  a  tone  of 
compassionate  cordiality,  "what  a  pity  it  is  you 
don't  have  a  rim  with  the  hounds  now  and  then ! 
The  finest  thing  in  the  world  for  low  spirits  ! " 

"  Low  spirits ! "  I  thought  bitterly,  as  he  rode 
away  ;  "  that  is  the  sort  of  phrase  with  which  coarse, 
narrow  natures  like  yours  think  to  describe  expe- 
rience of  which  you  can  know  no  more  than  your 
horse  knows.  It  is  to  such  as  you  that  the  good 
of  this  world  falls :  ready  dulness,  healthy  selfish- 
ness, good-tempered  conceit,  —  these  are  the  keys 
to  happiness." 

The  quick  thought  came,  that  my  selfishness  was 
even  stronger  than  his,  — it  was  only  a  suffering 
selfishness  instead  of  an  enjoying  one.  But  then, 
again,  my  exasperating  insight  into  Alfred's  self- 
complacent  soul,  his  freedom  from  all  the  doubts 
and  fears,  the  unsatisfied  yearnings,  the  exquisite 
tortures  of  sensitiveness,  that  had  made  the  web 
of  my  life,  seemed  to  absolve  me  from  all  bonds 
towards  him.  This  man  needed  no  pity,  no  love ; 
those  fine  influences  would  have  been  as  little  felt 
by  him  as  the  delicate  white  mist  is  felt  by  the 
rock  it  caresses.  There  was  no  evil  in  store  for 
him:  if  he  was  not  to  marry  Bertha,  it  would 
be  because  he  had  found  a  lot  pleasanter  to 
himself. 

Mr.  Filmore's  house  lay  not  more  than  half  a 
mile  beyond  our  own  gates,  and  whenever  I  knew 
my  brother  was  gone  in  another  direction,  I  went 
there  for  the  chance  of  finding  Bertha  at  home. 
Later  on  in  the  day  I  walked  thither.  By  a  rare 
accident  she  was  alone,  and  we  walked  out  in 
the  grounds  together,  for  she  seldom  went  on  foot 
beyond  the  trimly  swept  gravel-walks.     I  remember 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  287 

what  a  beautiful  sylph  she  looked  to  me  as  the  low 
November  sun  shone  on  her  blond  hah',  and  she 
tripped  along  teasing  me  with  her  usual  light  banter, 
to  which  I  listened  half  fondly,  half  moodily;  it 
was  all  the  sign  Bertha's  mysterious  inner  self  ever 
made  to  me.  To-day  perhaps  the  moodiness  pre- 
dominated, for  I  had  not  yet  shaken  off  the  access 
of  jealous  hate  which  my  brother  had  raised  in  me 
by  his  parting  patronage.  Suddenly  I  interrupted 
and  startled  her  by  saying,  almost  fiercely,  "  Bertha, 
how  can  you  love  Alfred  ? " 

She  looked  at  me  with  surprise  for  a  moment, 
but  soon  her  light  smile  came  again,  and  she  an- 
swered sarcastically,  "  Why  do  you  suppose  I  love 
him  ? " 

"  How  can  you  ask  that,  Bertha  ? " 

"  What !  your  wisdom  thinks  I  must  love  the 
man  I  'm  going  to  marry  ?  The  most  unpleasant 
thing  in  the  world.  I  should  quarrel  with  him  ;  I 
should  be  jealous  of  him ;  our  menage  would  be 
conducted  in  a  very  ill-bred  manner.  A  little  quiet 
contempt  contributes  greatly  to  the  elegance  of 
life." 

"  Bertha,  that  is  not  your  real  feeling.  Why  do 
you  delight  in  trying  to  deceive  me  by  inventing 
such  cynical  speeches  ?  " 

"I  need  never  take  the  trouble  of  invention  in 
order  to  deceive  you,  my  small  Tasso"  (that  was 
the  mocking  name  she  usually  gave  me).  "The 
easiest  way  to  deceive  a  poet  is  to  tell  him  the 
truth." 

She  was  testing  the  validity  of  her  epigram  in  a 
daring  way,  and  for  a  moment  the  shadow  of  my 
vision  —  the  Bertha  whose  soul  was  no  secret  to 
me  —  passed  between  me  and  the  radiant  girl,  the 


288  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

playful  sylph  whose  feelings  were  a  fascinating 
mystery.  I  suppose  I  must  have  shuddered,  or 
betrayed  in  some  other  way  my  momentary  chill 
of  horror. 

"  Tasso  ]  "  she  said,  seizing  my  wrist  and  peeping 
round  into  my  face,  "  are  you  really  beginning  to 
discern  w^hat  a  heartless  girl  I  am  ?  Why,  you  are 
not  half  the  poet  I  thought  you  were ;  you  are  act- 
ually capable  of  believing  the  truth  about  me." 

The  shadow  passed  from  between  us,  and  was  no 
longer  the  object  nearest  to  me.  The  girl  whose 
light  fingers  grasped  me,  whose  elfish  charming  face 
looked  into  mine,  —  who,  I  thought,  was  betraying 
an  interest  in  my  feelings  that  she  would  not  have 
directly  avowed,  —  this  warm-breathing  presence 
again  possessed  my  senses  and  imagination  like 
a  returning  siren  melody  which  had  been  over- 
powered for  an  instant  by  the  roar  of  threatening 
waves.  It  was  a  moment  as  delicious  to  me  as 
the  waking  up  to  a  consciousness  of  youth  after  a 
dream  of  middle  age.  I  forgot  everything  but  my 
passion,  and  said  with  swimming  eyes,  — 

"  Bertha,  shall  you  love  me  when  we  are  first 
married  ?  I  would  n't  mind  if  you  really  loved  me 
only  for  a  little  while." 

Her  look  of  astonishment,  as  she  loosed  my  hand 
and  started  away  from  me,  recalled  me  to  a  sense 
of  my  strange,  my  criminal  indiscretion. 

"  Forgive  me,"  I  said  hurriedly,  as  soon  as  I  could 
speak  again  ;  "  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  saying." 

"  Ah,  Tasso's  mad  fit  has  come  on,  I  see,"  she 
answ^ered  quietly,  for  she  had  recovered  herself 
sooner  than  I  had.  "  Let  him  go  home  and  keep 
his  head  cool.     I  must  go  in,  for  the  sun  is  setting." 

I  left  her,  —  full  of  indignation  against  myself. 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  289 

I  had  let  slip  words  which,  if  she  reflected  on  them, 
might  rouse  in  her  a  suspicion  of  my  abnormal 
mental  condition,  —  a  suspicion  which  of  all  things 
I  dreaded.  And  besides  that,  I  was  ashamed  of 
the  apparent  baseness  I  had  committed  in  uttering 
them  to  my  brother's  betrothed  wife.  I  wandered 
home  slowly,  entering  our  park  through  a  private 
gate  instead  of  by  the  lodges.  As  I  approached  the 
house,  I  saw  a  man  dashing  off  at  full  speed  from 
the  stable-yard  across  the  park.  Had  any  accident 
happened  at  home  ?  No ;  perhaps  it  was  only  one 
of  my  father's  peremptory  business  errands  that  re- 
quired this  headlong  haste.  Nevertheless  I  quick- 
ened my  pace  without  any  distinct  motive,  and  was 
soon  at  the  house.  I  will  not  dwell  on  the  scene  I 
found  there.  My  brother  was  dead,  —  had  been 
pitched  from  his  horse,  and  killed  on  the  spot  by  a 
concussion  of  the  brain. 

I  went  up  to  the  room  where  he  lay,  and  where 
my  father  was  seated  beside  him  with  a  look  of 
rigid  despair.  I  had  shunned  my  father  more  than 
any  one  since  our  return  home,  for  the  radical 
antipathy  between  our  natures  made  my  insight 
into  his  inner  self  a  constant  affliction  to  me.  But 
now,  as  I  went  up  to  him,  and  stood  beside  him  in 
sad  silence,  I  felt  the  presence  of  a  new  element 
that  blended  us  as  we  had  never  been  blent  before. 
My  father  had  been  one  of  the  most  successful  men 
in  the  money-getting  world :  he  had  had  no  senti- 
mental sufferings,  no  illness.  The  heaviest  trouble 
that  had  befallen  him  was  the  death  of  his  first  wife. 
But  he  married  my  mother  soon  after ;  and  I  re- 
member he  seemed  exactly  the  same,  to  my  keen 
childish  observation,  the  week  after  her  death  as 
before.     But  now,  at  last,  a  sorrow  had  come,  —  the 

19 


290  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

sorrow  of  old  age,  whicli  suffers  the  more  from  the 
crushing  of  its  pride  and  its  hopes,  in  proportion  as 
the  pride  and  hope  are  narrow  and  prosaic.  His 
son  was  to  have  been  married  soon,  —  would  prob- 
ably have  stood  for  the  borough  at  the  next  election. 
That  son's  existence  was  the  best  motive  that  could 
be  alleged  for  making  new  purchases  of  land  every 
year  to  round  off  the  estate.  It  is  a  dreary  thing 
to  live  on  doing  the  same  things  year  after  year, 
without  knowing  why  we  do  them.  Perhaps  the 
tragedy  of  disappointed  youth  and  passion  is  less 
piteous  than  the  tragedy  of  disappointed  age  and 
worldliness. 

As  I  saw  into  the  desolation  of  my  father's 
heart,  I  felt  a  movement  of  deep  pity  towards  him, 
which  was  the  beginning  of  a  new  affection,  —  an 
affection  that  grew  and  strengthened  in  spite  of 
the  strange  bitterness  with  which  he  regarded  me 
in  the  first  month  or  two  after  my  brother's  death. 
If  it  had  not  been  for  the  softening  influence  of 
my  compassion  for  him,  —  the  first  deep  compas- 
sion I  had  ever  felt,  —  I  should  have  been  stung 
by  the  perception  that  my  father  transferred  the 
inheritance  of  an  eldest  son  to  me  with  a  mortified 
sense  that  fate  had  compelled  him  to  the  unwel- 
come course  of  caring  for  me  as  an  important 
being.  It  was  only  in  spite  of  himself  that  he 
began  to  think  of  me  with  anxious  regard.  There 
is  hardly  any  neglected  child  for  whom  death  has 
made  vacant  a  more  favoured  place,  who  will  not 
understand  what  I  mean. 

Gradually,  however,  my  new  deference  to  his 
wishes,  the  effect  of  that  patience  which  was  born 
of  my  pity  for  him,  won  upon  his  affection,  and 
he  began  to  please  himself  with  the  endeavour  to 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  291 

make  me  fill  my  brother's  place  as  fully  as  my 
feebler  personality  would  admit.  I  saw  that  the 
prospect  which  by  and  by  presented  itself^  of  my 
becoming  Bertha's  husband  was  welcome  to  him, 
and  he  even  contemplated  in  my  case  what  he  had 
not  intended  in  my  brother's,  —  that  his  son  and 
daughter-in-law  should  make  one  household  with 
him.  My  softened  feeling  towards  my  father 
made  this  the  happiest  time  I  had  known  since 
childhood ;  —  these  last  months  in  which  I  re- 
tained the  delicious  illusion  of  loving  Bertha,  of 
longing  and  doubting  and  hoping  that  she  might 
love  me.  She  behaved  with  a  certain  new  con- 
sciousness and  distance  towards  me  after  my 
brother's  death;  and  I  too  was  under  a  double 
constraint,  — that  of  delicacy  towards  my  brother's 
memory,  and  of  anxiety  as  to  the  impression  my 
abrupt  words  had  left  on  her  mind.  But  the  addi- 
tional screen  this  mutual  reserve  erected  between 
us  only  brought  me  more  completely  under  her 
power :  no  matter  how  empty  the  adytum,  so  that 
the  veil  be  thick  enough.  So  absolute  is  our 
soul's  need  of  something  hidden  and  uncertain  for 
the  maintenance  of  that  doubt  and  hope  and  effort 
which  are  the  breath  of  its  life,  that  if  the  whole 
future  were  laid  bare  to  us  beyond  to-day,  the  in- 
terest of  all  mankind  would  be  bent  on  the  hours 
that  lie  between ;  we  should  pant  after  the  uncer- 
tainties of  our  one  morning  and  our  one  afternoon ; 
we  should  rusli  fiercely  to  the  Exchange  for  our 
last  possibility  of  speculation,  of  success,  of  dis- 
appointment; we  should  have  a  glut  of  political 
prophets  foretelling  a  crisis  or  a  no-crisis  within 
the  only  twenty-four  hours  left  open  to  prophecy. 
Conceive  the  condition  of  the  human  mind  if  all 


292  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

propositions  whatsoever  were  self-evident  except 
one,  which  was  to  become  self-evident  at  the  close 
of  a  summer's  day,  but  in  the  mean  time  might  be 
the  subject  of  question,  of  hypothesis,  of  debate. 
Art  and  philosophy,  literature  and  science,  would 
fasten  like  bees  on  that  one  proposition  which  had 
the  honey  of  probability  in  it,  and  be  the  more 
eager  because  their  enjoyment  would  end  with 
sunset.  Our  impulses,  our  spiritual  activities,  no 
more  adjust  themselves  to  the  idea  of  their  future 
nullity,  than  the  beating  of  our  heart,  or  the 
irritability  of  our  muscles. 

Bertha,  the  slim,  fair-haired  girl,  whose  pres- 
ent thoughts  and  emotions  were  an  enigma  to  me 
amidst  the  fatiguing  obviousness  of  the  other  minds 
around  me,  was  as  absorbing  to  me  as  a  single 
unknown  to-day,  —  as  a  single  hypothetic  proposi- 
tion to  remain  problematic  till  sunset ;  and  all  the 
cramped,  hemmed-in  belief  and  disbelief,  trust  and 
distrust,  of  my  nature  welled  out  in  this  one  narrow 
channel. 

And  she  made  me  believe  that  she  loved  me. 
Without  ever  quitting  her  tone  of  badinage  and 
playful  superiority,  she  intoxicated  me  with  the 
sense  that  I  was  necessary  to  her,  that  she  was 
never  at  ease  unless  I  was  near  her,  submitting  to 
her  playful  tyranny.  It  costs  a  woman  so  little 
effort  to  besot  us  in  this  way !  A  half-repressed 
word,  a  moment's  unexpected  silence,  even  an  easy 
fit  of  j^tulance  on  our  account,  will  serve  us  as 
hashish  for  a  long  while.  Out  of  the  subtlest  web 
of  scarcely  perceptible  signs,  she  set  me  weaving 
the  fancy  that  she  had  always  unconsciously  loved 
me  better  than  Alfred,  but  that,  with  the  ignorant 
fluttered  sensibility  of  a  young  girl,  she  had  been 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  293 

imposed  on  by  the  charm  that  lay  for  her  in  the 
distinction  of  being  admired  and  chosen  by  a  man 
who  made  so  brilliant  a  figure  in  the  world  as  my 
brother.  She  satirized  herself  in  a  very  graceful 
way  for  her  vanity  and  ambition.  What  was  it  to 
me  that  I  had  the  light  of  my  wretched  prevision 
on  the  fact  that  now  it  was  I  who  possessed  at 
least  all  but  the  personal  part  of  my  brother's  ad- 
vantages ?  Our  sweet  illusions  are  half  of  them  con- 
scious illusions,  like  effects  of  colour  that  we  know 
to  be  made  up  of  tinsel,  broken  glass,  and  rags. 

We  were  married  eighteen  months  after  Alfred's 
death,  one  cold,  clear  morning  in  April,  when 
there  came  hail  and  sunshine  both  together;  and 
Bertha,  in  her  white  silk  and  pale-green  leaves, 
and  the  pale  hues  of  her  hair  and  face,  looked  like 
the  spirit  of  the  morning.  My  father  was  happier 
than  he  had  thought  of  being  again :  my  marriage, 
he  felt  sure,  would  complete  the  desirable  modifi- 
cation of  my  character,  and  make  me  practical  and 
worldly  enough  to  take  my  place  in  society  among 
sane  men.  For  he  delighted  in  Bertha's  tact  and 
acuteness,  and  felt  sure  she  would  be  mistress  of 
me,  and  make  me  wiiat  she  chose :  I  was  only 
twenty-one,  and  madly  in  love  with  her.  Poor 
father !  He  kept  that  hope  a  little  while  after  our 
first  year  of  marriage,  and  it  was  not  quite  extinct 
when  paralysis  came  and  saved  him  from  utter 
disappointment. 

I  shall  hurry  through  the  rest  of  my  story,  not 
dwelling  so  much  as  I  have  hitherto  done  on  my 
inward  experience.  When  people  are  well  known  1 
to  each  other,  they  talk  rather  of  what  befalls 
them  externally,  leaving  their  feelings  and  senti- 
ments to  be  inferred. 

J 


294  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

We  lived  in  a  round  of  visits  for  some  time  after 
our  return  home,  giving  splendid  dinner-parties, 
and  making  a  sensation  in  our  neighbourhood  by 
the  new  lustre  of  our  equipage,  for  my  father  had 
reserved  this  display  of  his  increased  wealth  for 
the  period  of  his  son's  marriage;  and  we  gave  our 
acquaintances  liberal  opportunity  for  remarking 
that  it  was  a  pity  I  made  so  poor  a  figure  as  an 
heir  and  a  bridegroom.  The  nervous  fatigue  of 
this  existence,  the  insincerities  and  platitudes 
which  I  had  to  live  through  twice  over,  —  through 
my  inner  and  outward  sense,  —  would  have  been 
maddening  to  me,  if  I  had  not  had  that  sort  of 
intoxicated  callousness  which  came  from  the 
delights  of  a  first  passion.  A  bride  and  bride- 
groom, surrounded  by  all  the  appliances  of  wealth, 
hurried  through  the  day  by  the  whirl  of  society, 
filling  their  solitary  moments  with  hastily  snatched 
caresses,  are  prepared  for  their  future  life  together 
as  the  novice  is  prepared  for  the  cloister,  —  by 
experiencing  its  utmost  contrast. 

Through  all  these  crowded  excited  months. 
Bertha's  inward  self  remained  shrouded  from  me, 
and  I  still  read  her  thoughts  only  through  the  lan- 
guage of  her  lips  and  demeanour :  I  had  still  the 
human  interest  of  wondering  whether  what  I  did 
and  said  pleased  her,  of  longing  to  hear  a  word 
of  affection,  of  giving  a  delicious  exaggeration  of 
meaning  to  her  smile.  But  I  was  conscious  of  a 
growing  difference  in  her  manner  towards  me ; 
sometimes  strong  enough  to  be  called  haughty 
coldness,  cutting  and  chilling  me  as  the  hail  had 
done  that  came  across  the  sunshine  on  our  mar- 
riage morning ;  sometimes  only  perceptible  in  the 
dexterous  avoidance  of  a  tetc-a-tete  walk  or  dinner 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  295 

to  which  I  had  been  looking  forward.  I  had  been 
deeply  pained  by  this,  —  had  even  felt  a  sort  of 
crushing  of  the  heart,  from  the  sense  that  my  brief 
day  of  happiness  was  near  its  setting ;  but  still  I 
remained  dependent  on  Bertha,  eager  for  the  last 
rays  of  a  bliss  that  would  soon  be  gone  forever, 
hoping  and  watching  for  some  after-glow  more 
beautiful  from  the  impending  night. 

I  remember  —  how  should  I  not  remember  ?  — 
the  time  when  that  dependence  and  hope  utterly 
left  me,  when  the  sadness  I  had  felt  in  Bertha's 
growing  estrangement  became  a  joy  that  I  looked 
back  upon  with  longing,  as  a  man  might  look 
back  on  the  last  pains  in  a  paralyzed  limb.  It 
was  just  after  the  close  of  my  father's  last  illness, 
which  had  necessarily  withdrawn  us  from  society 
and  thrown  us  more  upon  each  other.  It  was  the 
evening  of  my  father's  death.  On  that  evening 
the  veil  which  had  shrouded  Bertha's  soul  from 
me  —  had  made  me  find  in  her  alone  among  my 
fellow-beings  the  blessed  possibility  of  mystery 
and  doubt  and  expectation  —  was  first  withdrawn. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  first  day  since  the  beginning  of 
my  passion  for  her,  in  which  that  passion  was 
completely  neutralized  by  the  presence  of  an  ab- 
sorbing feeling  of  another  kind.  I  had  been 
watching  by  my  father's  death-bed :  I  had  been 
witnessing  the  last  fitful  yearning  glance  his  soul 
had  cast  back  on  the  spent  inheritance  of  life,  — 
the  last  faint  consciousness  of  love  he  had  gathered 
from  the  pressure  of  my  hand.  What  are  all  our 
personal  loves  when  we  have  been  sharing  in  that 
supreme  agony  ?  In  the  first  moments  when  we 
come  away  from  the  presence  of  death,  every  other 
relation  to  the  living  is  merged,  to  our  feeling,  in 


296  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

the  great  relation  of  a  common  nature  and  a  com- 
mon destiny. 

In  that  state  of  mind  I  joined  Bertha  in  her 
private  sitting-room.  She  was  seated  in  a  leaning 
posture  on  a  settee,  with  her  back  towards  the 
door;  the  great  rich  coils  of  her  pale  blond  hair 
surmounting  her  small  neck,  visible  above  the 
back  of  the  settee.  I  remember,  as  I  closed  the 
door  behind  me,  a  cold  tremulousness  seizing  me, 
and  a  vague  sense  of  being  hated  and  lonely,  — 
vague  and  strong,  like  a  presentiment.  I  know 
how  I  looked  at  that  moment,  for  I  saw  myself  in 
Bertha's  thought  as  she  lifted  her  cutting  gray 
eyes,  and  looked  at  me :  a  miserable  ghost-seer, 
surrounded  by  phantoms  in  the  noonday,  trem- 
bling under  a  breeze  when  the  leaves  were  still, 
without  appetite  for  the  common  objects  of  human 
desire,  but  pining  after  the  moonbeams.  We  were 
front  to  front  with  each  other,  and  judged  each 
other.  The  terrible  moment  of  complete  illumina- 
tion had  come  to  me,  and  I  saw  that  the  darkness 
had  hidden  no  landscape  from  me,  but  only  a 
blank  prosaic  wall :  from  that  evening  forth, 
through  the  sickening  years  which  followed,  I  saw 
all  round  the  narrow  room  of  this  woman's  soul, 
—  saw  petty  artifice  and  mere  negation  where  I 
had  delighted  to  believe  in  coy  sensibilities  and  in 
wit  at  war  with  latent  feeling,  —  saw  the  light 
floating  vanities  of  the  girl  defining  themselves 
into  the  systematic  coquetry,  the  scheming  selfish- 
ness, of  the  woman,  — saw  repulsion  and  antipathy 
harden  into  cruel  hatred,  giving  pain  only  for  the 
sake  of  wreaking  itself. 

For  Bertha  too,  after  her  kind,  felt  the  bitter- 
ness of  disillusion.      She  had  believed  that  my 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  297 

wild  poet's  passion  for  her  would  make  me  her 
slave ;  and  that,  being  her  slave,  I  should  execute 
her  will  in  all  things.  With  the  essential  shal- 
lowness of  a  negative,  unimaginative  nature,  she 
was  unable  to  conceive  the  fact  that  sensibilities 
were  anything  else  than  weaknesses.  She  had 
thought  my  weaknesses  would  put  me  in  her 
power,  and  she  found  them  unmanageable  forces. 
Our  positions  were  reversed.  Before  marriage  she 
had  completely  mastered  my  imagination,  for  she 
was  a  secret  to  me ;  and  I  created  the  unknown 
thought  before  which  I  trembled  as  if  it  were  hers. 
But  now  that  her  soul  was  laid  open  to  me,  now 
that  I  was  compelled  to  share  the  privacy  of  her 
motives,  to  follow  all  the  petty  devices  that  pre- 
ceded her  words  and  acts,  she  found  herself  power- 
less with  me,  except  to  produce  in  me  the  chill 
shudder  of  repulsion,  — powerless,  because  I  could 
be  acted  on  by  no  lever  within  her  reach.  I  was 
dead  to  worldly  ambitions,  to  social  vanities,  to 
all  the  incentives  within  the  compass  of  her  nar- 
row imagination,  and  I  lived  under  influences 
utterly  invisible  to  her. 

She  was  really  pitiable  to  have  such  a  husband, 
and  so  all  the  world  thought.  A  graceful,  bril- 
liant w^oman,  like  Bertha,  who  smiled  on  morning 
callers,  made  a  figure  in  ball-rooms,  and  w^as  capa- 
ble of  that  light  repartee  which,  from  such  a 
woman,  is  accepted  as  wit,  was  secure  of  carrying 
off  all  sympathy  from  a  husband  who  was  sickly, 
abstracted,  and,  as  some  suspected,  crack-brained. 
Even  the  servants  in  our  house  gave  her  the 
balance  of  their  regard  and  pity.  For  there  were 
no  audible  quarrels  between  us ;  our  alienation, 
our  repulsion   from   each   other,    lay   within   the 


298  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

silence  of  our  own  hearts ;  and  if  the  mistress 
went  out  a  great  deal,  and  seemed  to  dislike  the 
master's  society,  was  it  not  natural,  poor  thing  ? 
The  master  was  odd.  I  was  kind  and  just  to  my 
dependants,  but  I  excited  in  them  a  shrinking, 
half-contemptuous  pity ;  for  this  class  of  men  and 
women  are  but  slightly  determined  in  their  esti- 
mate of  others  by  general  considerations,  or  even 
experience,  of  character.  They  judge  of  persons 
as  they  judge  of  coins,  and  value  those  who  pass 
current  at  a  high  rate. 

After  a  time  I  interfered  so  little  with  Bertha's 
habits,  that  it  might  seem  wonderful  how  her 
hatred  towards  me  could  grow  so  intense  and  active 
as  it  did.  But  she  had  begun  to  suspect,  by  some 
involuntary  betrayals  of  mine,  that  there  was  an 
abnormal  power  of  penetration  in  me,  —  that  fit- 
fully, at  least,  I  was  strangely  cognizant  of  her 
thoughts  and  intentions,  and  she  began  to  be 
haunted  by  a  terror  of  me,  which  alternated  every 
now  and  then  with  defiance.  She  meditated  con- 
-tinually  how  the  incubus  could  be  shaken  off  her 
life,  — how  she  could  be  freed  from  this  hateful 
bond  to  a  being  whom  she  at  once  despised  as  an 
imbecile,  and  dreaded  as  an  inquisitor.  For  a 
long  while  she  lived  in  the  hope  that  my  evident 
wretchedness  would  drive  me  to  the  commission  of 
suicide ;  but  suicide  was  not  in  my  nature.  I  was 
too  completely  swayed  by  the  sense  that  I  was  in 
the  grasp  of  unknown  forces,  to  believe  in  my 
power  of  self-release.  Towards  my  own  destiny  I 
had  become  entirely  passive ;  for  my  one  ardent 
desire  had  spent  itself,  and  impulse  no  longer  pre- 
dominated over  knowledge.  For  this  reason  I 
never  thought  of  taking  any  steps  towards  a  com- 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  299 

plete  separation,  which  would  have  made  our 
alienation  evident  to  the  world.  Why  should  I 
rush  for  help  to  a  new  course,  when  I  was  only 
suffering  from  the  consequences  of  a  deed  which 
had  been  the  act  of  my  intensest  will  ?  That 
would  have  been  the  logic  of  one  who  had  desires 
to  gratify,  and  I  had  no  desires.  But  Bertha  and 
I  lived  more  and  more  aloof  from  each  other.  The 
rich  find  it  easy  to  live  married  and  apart. 

That  course  of  our  life  which  I  have  indicated 
in  a  few  sentences  filled  the  space  of  years.  So 
much  misery,  so  slow  and  hideous  a  growth  of 
hatred  and  sin,  may  be  compressed  into  a  sentence  ! 
And  men  judge  of  each  other's  lives  through  this 
summary  medium.  They  epitomize  the  experience 
of  their  fellow-mortal,  and  pronounce  judgment  on 
him  in  neat  syntax,  and  feel  themselves  wise  and 
virtuous,  —  conquerors  over  the  temptations  they 
define  in  well -selected  predicates.  Seven  years  of 
wretchedness  glide  glibly  over  the  lips  of  the  man 
who  has  never  counted  them  out  in  moments  of 
chill  disappointment,  of  head  and  heart  throb- 
bings,  of  dread  and  vain  wrestling,  of  remorse  and 
despair.  "VVe  learn  words  by  rote,  but  not  their 
meaning ;  that  must  be  paid  for  with  our  life- 
blood,  and  printed  in  the  subtle  fibres  of  our 
nerves. 

But  I  will  hasten  to  finish  my  story.  Brevity 
is  justified  at  once  to  those  who  readily  under- 
stand, and  to  those  who  will  never  understand. 

Some  years  after  my  father's  death,  I  was  sit- 
ting by  the  dim  firelight  in  my  library  one  January 
evening,  —  sitting  in  the  leather  chair  that  used 
to  be  my  father's,  — when  Bertha  appeared  at  the 
door,  with  a  candle  in   her  hand,  and   advanced 


300  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

towards  me.  I  knew  the  ball-dress  she  had  on,  — 
the  white  ball-dress  with  the  green  jewels,  shone 
upon  by  the  light  of  the  wax  candle  which  lit  up 
the  medallion  of  the  dying  Cleopatra  on  the 
mantelpiece.  Why  did  she  come  to  me  before 
going  out  ?  I  had  not  seen  her  in  the  library, 
which  was  my  habitual  place,  for  months.  Why 
did  she  stand  before  me  with  the  candle  in  her 
hand,  with  her  cruel  contemptuous  eyes  fixed  on 
me,  and  the  glittering  serpent,  like  a  familiar 
demon,  on  her  breast  ?  For  a  moment  I  thought 
this  fulfilment  of  my  vision  at  Vienna  marked 
some  dreadful  crisis  in  my  fate,  but  I  saw  nothing 
in  Bertha's  mind,  as  she  stood  before  me,  except 
scorn  for  the  look  of  overwhelming  misery  with 
which  I  sat  before  her.  ..."  Fool,  idiot,  why 
don't  you  kill  yourself,  then?" — that  was  her 
thought.  But  at  length  her  thoughts  reverted  to 
her  errand,  and  she  spoke  aloud.  The  apparently 
indifferent  nature  of  the  errand  seemed  to  make  a 
ridiculous  anticlimax  to  my  prevision  and  my 
agitation. 

"  I  have  had  to  hire  a  new  maid.  Fletcher  is 
going  to  be  maiTied,  and  she  wants  me  to  ask  you 
to  let  her  husband  have  the  public-house  and  farm 
at  Molton.  I  wish  him  to  have  it.  You  must 
give  the  promise  now,  because  Fletcher  is  going 
to-morrow  morning,  —  and  quickly,  because  I  'm 
in  a  hurry. " 

"  Very  well ;  you  may  promise  her, "  I  said  in- 
differently ;  and  Bertha  swept  out  of  the  library 
again. 

I  always  shrank  from  the  sight  of  a  new  person, 
and  all  the  more  when  it  was  a  person  whose 
mental  life  was  likely  to  weary  my  reluctant  in- 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  301 

sight  with  worldly  ignorant  trivialities.  But  I 
shrank  especially  from  the  sight  of  this  new  maid, 
because  her  advent  had  been  announced  to  me  at  a 
moment  to  which  I  could  not  cease  to  attach  some 
fatality :  I  had  a  vague  dread  that  I  should  find 
her  mixed  up  with  the  dreary  drama  of  my  life,  — 
that  some  new  sickening  vision  would  reveal  her 
to  me  as  an  evil  genius.  When  at  last  I  did  un- 
avoidably meet  her,  the  vague  dread  was  changed 
into  definite  disgust.  She  was  a  tall,  wiry,  dark- 
eyed  woman,  this  Mrs.  Archer,  with  a  face  hand- 
some enough  to  give  her  coarse  hard  nature  the 
odious  finish  of  bold,  self-confident  coquetry. 
That  was  enough  to  make  me  avoid  her,  quite 
apart  from  the  contemptuous  feeling  with  which 
she  contemplated  me.  I  seldom  saw  her;  but  I 
perceived  that  she  rapidly  became  a  favourite  with 
her  mistress,  and,  after  the  lapse  of  eight  or  nine 
months,  I  began  to  be  aware  that  there  had  arisen 
in  Bertha's  mind  towards  this  woman  a  mingled 
feeling  of  fear  and  dependence,  and  that  this  feel- 
ing was  associated  with  ill-defined  images  of 
candle-light  scenes  in  her  dressing-room,  and  the 
locking  up  of  something  in  Bertha's  cabinet.  My 
interviews  with  my  wife  had  become  so  brief  and 
so  rarely  solitary  that  I  had  no  opportunity  of 
perceiving  these  images  in  her  mind  with  more 
definiteness.  The  recollections  of  the  past  become 
contracted  in  the  rapidity  of  thought  till  they 
sometimes  bear  hardly  a  more  distinct  resemblance 
to  the  external  reality  than  the  forms  of  an  orien- 
tal alphabet  to  the  objects  that  suggested  them. 

Besides,  for  the  last  year  or  more  a  modification 
had  been  going  forward  in  my  mental  condition, 
and  was  growing  more  and  more  marked.      My 


302  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

insight  into  the  minds  of  those  around  me  was 
becoming  dimmer  and  more  fitful,  and  the  ideas 
that  crowded  my  double  consciousness  became  less 
and  less  dependent  on  any  personal  contact.  All 
that  was  personal  in  me  seemed  to  be  suffering  a 
gradual  death,  so  that  I  was  losing  the  organ 
through  which  the  personal  agitations  and  projects 
of  others  could  afiect  me.  But  along  with  this 
relief  from  wearisome  insight,  there  was  a  new 
development  of  what  I  concluded  —  as  I  have 
since  found  rightly,  —  to  be  a  prevision  of  exter- 
nal scenes.  It  was  as  if  the  relation  between  me 
and  my  fellow-men  was  more  and  more  deadened, 
and  my  relation  to  what  we  call  the  inanimate 
was  quickened  into  new  life.  The  more  I  lived 
apart  from  society,  and  in  proportion  as  my 
wretchedness  subsided  from  the  violent  throb  of 
agonized  passion  into  the  dulness  of  habitual  pain, 
the  more  frequent  and  vivid  became  such  visions 
as  that  I  had  had  of  Prague,  —  of  strange  cities,  of 
sandy  plains,  of  gigantic  ruins,  of  midnight  skies 
with  strange  bright  constellations,  of  mountain- 
passes,  of  grassy  nooks  flecked  with  the  afternoon 
sunshine  through  the  boughs :  I  was  in  the  midst 
of  such  scenes,  and  in  all  of  them  one  presence 
seemed  to  weigh  on  me  in  all  these  mighty 
shapes,  —  the  presence  of  something  unknown  and 
pitiless.  For  continual  suffering  had  annihilated 
religious  faith  within  me :  to  the  utterly  miser- 
able —  the  unloving  and  the  unloved  —  there  is 
no  religion  possible,  no  worship  but  a  worship  of 
devils.  And  beyond  all  these,  and  continually 
recurring,  was  the  vision  of  my  death,  —  the 
pangs,  the  suffocation,  the  last  struggle,  when  life 
would  be  grasped  at  in  vain. 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  303 

Things  were  in  this  state  near  the  end  of  the 
seventh  year.  I  had  become  entirely  free  from 
insight,  from  my  abnormal  cognizance  of  any  other 
consciousness  than  my  own,  and,  instead  of  intrud- 
ing involuntarily  into  the  world  of  other  minds, 
was  living  continually  in  my  own  solitary  future. 
Bertha  was  aware  that  I  was  greatly  changed. 
To  my  surprise  she  had  of  late  seemed  to  seek 
opportunities  of  remaining  in  my  society,  and  had 
cultivated  that  kind  of  distant  yet  familiar  talk 
which  is  customary  between  a  husband  and  wife 
who  live  in  polite  and  irrevocable  alienation.  I 
bore  this  with  languid  submission,  and  without 
feeling  enough  interest  in  her  motives  to  be  roused 
into  keen  observation ;  yet  I  could  not  help  per- 
ceiving something  triumphant  and  excited  in  her 
carriage  and  the  expression  of  her  face,  —  some- 
thing too  subtle  to  express  itself  in  words  or  tones, 
but  giving  one  the  idea  that  she  lived  in  a  state  of 
expectation  or  hopeful  suspense.  My  chief  feeling 
was  satisfaction  that  her  inner  self  was  once  more 
shut  out  from  me ;  and  I  almost  revelled  for  the 
moment  in  the  absent  melancholy  that  made  me 
answer  her  at  cross  purposes,  and  betray  utter 
ignorance  of  what  she  had  been  saying.  I  remem- 
ber well  the  look  and  the  smile  with  which  she 
one  day  said,  after  a  mistake  of  this  kind  on  my 
part :  "  I  used  to  think  you  were  a  clairvoyant, 
and  tbat  was  the  reason  why  you  were  so  bitter 
against  other  clairvoyants,  wanting  to  keep  your 
monopoly ;  but  I  see  now  you  have  become  rather 
duller  than  the  rest  of  the  world. " 

I  said  nothing  in  reply.  It  occurred  to  me  that 
her  recent  obtrusion  of  herself  upon  me  might 
have  been  prompted  by  the  wish  to  test  my  power 


304  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

of  detecting  some  of  her  secrets ;  but  I  let  the 
thought  drop  again  at  once :  her  motives  and  her 
deeds  had  no  interest  for  me,  and  whatever  pleas- 
ures she  might  be  seeking,  I  had  no  wish  to  balk 
her.  There  was  still  pity  in  my  soul  for  every 
living  thing,  and  Bertha  was  living,  —  was  sur- 
rounded with  possibilities  of  misery. 

Just  at  this  time  there  occurred  an  event  which 
roused  me  somewhat  from  my  inertia,  and  gave 
me  an  interest  in  the  passing  moment  that  I  had 
thought  impossible  for  me.  It  was  a  visit  from 
Charles  Meunier,  who  had  written  me  word  that 
he  was  coming  to  England  for  relaxation  from  too 
strenuous  labour,  and  would  like  to  see  me. 
Meunier  had  now  a  European  reputation ;  but  his 
letter  to  me  expressed  that  keen  remembrance  of 
an  early  regard,  an  early  debt  of  sympathy,  which 
is  inseparable  from  noljility  of  character:  and  I 
too  felt  as  if  his  presence  would  be  to  me  like  a 
transient  resurrection  into  a  happier  pre-existence. 

He  came,  and  as  far  as  possible,  I  renewed  our 
old  pleasure  of  making  tete-a-tete  excursions, 
though,  instead  of  mountains  and  glaciers  and  the 
wide  blue  lake,  we  had  to  content  ourselves  with 
mere  slopes  and  ponds  and  artificial  plantations. 
The  years  had  changed  us  both,  but  with  what 
different  result!  Meunier  was  now  a  brilliant 
figure  in  society,  to  whom  elegant  women  pre- 
tended to  listen,  and  whose  acquaintance  was 
boasted  of  by  noblemen  ambitious  of  brains.  He 
repressed  with  the  utmost  delicacy  all  betrayal  of 
the  shock  which  I  am  sure  he  must  have  received 
from  our  meeting,  or  of  a  desire  to  penetrate  into 
my  condition  and  circumstances,  and  sought  by 
the  utmost  exertion  of  his  charming  social  powers 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  305 

to  make  our  reunion  agreeable.  Bertha  was  much 
struck  by  the  unexpected  fascinations  of  a  visitor 
whom  she  had  expected  to  find  presentable  only  on 
the  score  of  his  celebrity,  and  put  forth  all  her 
coquetries  and  accomplishments.  Apparently  she 
succeeded  in  attracting  his  admiration,  for  his 
manner  towards  her  was  attentive  and  flattering. 
The  effect  of  his  presence  on  me  was  so  benignant, 
especially  in  those  renewals  of  our  old  tete-d-tete 
wanderings,  when  he  poured  forth  to  me  wonder- 
ful narratives  of  his  professional  experience,  that 
more  than  once,  when  his  talk  turned  on  the 
psychological  relations  of  disease,  the  thought 
crossed  my  mind  that,  if  his  stay  with  me  were 
long  enough,  I  might  possibly  bring  myself  to  tell 
this  man  the  secrets  of  my  lot.  Might  there  not 
lie  some  remedy  for  me,  too,  in  his  science  ?  Might 
there  not  at  least  lie  some  comprehension  and 
sympathy  ready  for  me  in  his  large  and  suscep- 
tible mind  ?  But  the  thought  only  flickered  feebly 
now  and  then,  and  died  out  before  it  could  become 
a  wish.  The  horror  I  had  of  again  breaking  in  on 
the  privacy  of  another  soul  made  me,  by  an  irra- 
tional instinct,  draw  the  shroud  of  concealment 
more  closely  around  my  own,  as  we  automatically 
perform  the  gesture  we  feel  to  be  wanting  in 
another. 

When  Meunier's  visit  was  approaching  its  con- 
clusion, there  happened  an  event  which  caused 
some  excitement  in  our  household,  owing  to  the 
surprisingly  strong  effect  it  appeared  to  produce 
on  Bertha,  —  on  Bertha,  the  self-possessed,  who 
usually  seemed  inaccessible  to  feminine  agitations, 
and  did  even  her  hate  in  a  self-restrained  hygienic 
manner.  This  event  was  the  sudden  severe  illness 
20 


3o6  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

of  her  maid,  Mrs.  Archer.  I  have  reserved  to 
this  moment  the  mention  of  a  circumstance  which 
had  forced  itself  on  my  notice  shortly  before 
Meunier's  arrival,  namely,  that  there  had  been 
some  quarrel  between  Bertha  and  this  maid, 
apparently  during  a  visit  to  a  distant  family,  in 
which  she  had  accompanied  her  mistress.  I  had 
overheard  Archer  speaking  in  a  tone  of  bitter  inso- 
lence, which  I  should  have  thought  an  adequate 
reason  for  immediate  dismissal.  No  dismissal 
followed;  on  the  contrary.  Bertha  seemed  to  be 
silently  putting  up  with  personal  inconveniences 
from  the  exhibitions  of  this  woman's  temper.  I 
was  the  more  astonished  to  observe  that  her  illness 
seemed  a  cause  of  strong  solicitude  to  Bertha ;  that 
she  was  at  the  bedside  night  and  day,  and  would 
allow  no  one  else  to  officiate  as  head-nurse.  It 
happened  that  our  family  doctor  was  out  on  a  holi- 
day, an  accident  which  made  Meunier's  presence 
in  the  house  doubly  welcome,  and  he  apparently 
entered  into  the  case  with  an  interest  which 
seemed  so  much  stronger  than  the  ordinary  profes- 
sional feeling,  that  one  day  when  he  had  fallen 
into  a  long  fit  of  silence  after  visiting  her,  I  said 
to  him,  — 

"  Is  this  a  very  peculiar  case  of  disease, 
Meunier  ?  " 

"No,"  he  answered,  "  it  is  an  attack  of  peri- 
tonitis, which  will  be  fatal,  but  which  does  not 
differ  physically  from  many  other  cases  that  have 
come  under  my  observation.  But  I  '11  tell  you 
what  I  have  on  my  mind.  I  want  to  make  an 
experiment  on  this  woman,  if  you  will  give  me 
permission.  It  can  do  her  no  harm,  — •  will  give 
her  no  pain,  —  for  I  shall  not  make  it  until  life  is 


THE  LIETED  VEIL.  307 

extinct  to  all  purposes  of  sensation.  I  want  to 
try  the  effect  of  transfusing  blood  into  her  arteries 
after  the  heart  has  ceased  to  beat  for  some  minutes. 
I  have  tried  the  experiment  again  and  again  with 
animals  that  have  died  of  this  disease,  with  as- 
tounding results,  and  I  want  to  try  it  on  a  human 
subject.  I  have  the  small  tubes  necessary,  in  a 
case  I  have  with  me,  and  the  rest  of  the  apparatus 
could  be  prepared  readily.  I  should  use  my  own 
blood,  —  take  it  from  my  own  arm.  This  woman 
won't  live  through  the  night,  I  'm  convinced,  and 
I  want  you  to  promise  me  your  assistance  in  mak- 
ing the  experiment.  I  can't  do  without  another 
hand,  but  it  would  perhaps  not  be  well  to  call  in  a 
medical  assistant  from  among  your  provincial  doc- 
tors. A  disagreeable  foolish  version  of  the  thing 
might  get  abroad. " 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  my  wife  on  the  subject  ?  " 
I  said,  "  because  she  appears  to  be  peculiarly  sen- 
sitive about  this  woman :  she  has  been  a  favourite 
maid. " 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  Meunier,  "  I  don't 
want  her  to  know  about  it.  There  are  always 
insuperable  difficulties  with  women  in  these  mat- 
ters, and  the  effect  on  the  supposed  dead  body  may 
be  startling.  You  and  I  will  sit  up  together,  and 
be  in  readiness.  When  certain  symptoms  appear 
I  shall  take  you  in,  and  at  the  right  moment  we 
must  manage  to  get  every  one  else  out  of  the 
room. " 

I  need  not  give  our  farther  conversation  on  the 
subject.  He  entered  very  fully  into  the  details, 
and  overcame  my  repulsion  from  them,  by  exciting 
in  me  a  mingled  awe  and  curiosity  concerning  the 
possible  results  of  his  experiment. 


3o8  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

We  prepared  everything,  and  he  instructed  me 
in  my  part  as  assistant.  He  had  not  told  Bertha 
of  his  absolute  conviction  that  Archer  would  not 
survive  through  the  night,  and  endeavoured  to  per- 
suade her  to  leave  the  patient  and  take  a  night's 
rest.  But  she  was  obstinate,  suspecting  the  fact 
that  death  was  at  hand,  and  supposing  that  he 
wished  merely  to  save  her  nerves.  She  refused 
to  leave  the  sick-room.  Meunier  and  I  sat  up 
together  in  the  library,  he  making  frequent  visits 
to  the  sick-room,  and  returning  with  the  informa- 
tion that  the  case  was  taking  precisely  the  course 
he  expected.  Once  he  said  to  me,  "  Can  you 
imagine  any  cause  of  ill  feeling  this  woman  has 
against  her  mistress,  who  is  so  devoted  to  her  ?  " 

"  I  think  there  was  some  misunderstanding 
between  them  before  her  illness.  Why  do  you 
ask  ? " 

"  Because  T  have  observed  for  the  last  five  or  six 
hours,  —  since,  I  fancy,  she  has  lost  all  hope  of 
recovery,  —  there  seems  a  strange  prompting  in  her 
to  say  something  which  pain  and  failing  strength 
forbid  her  to  utter ;  and  there  is  a  look  of  hideous 
meaning  in  her  eyes,  which  she  turns  continually 
towards  her  mistress.  In  this  disease  the  mind 
often  remains  singularly  clear  to  the  last.  " 

"  I  am  not  surprised  at  an  indication  of  malevo- 
lent feeling  in  her, "  I  said.  "  She  is  a  woman 
who  has  always  inspired  me  with  distrust  and 
dislike,  but  she  managed  to  insinuate  herself  into 
her  mistress's  favour. "  He  was  silent  after  this, 
looking  at  the  fire  with  an  air  of  absorption,  till 
he  went  upstairs  again.  He  stayed  away  longer 
than  usual,  and  on  returning,  said  to  me  quietly, 
"  Come  now.  " 


THE  LUTED  VEIL.  309 

I  followed  him  to  the  chamber  where  death  was 
hovering.  The  dark  hangings  of  the  large  bed 
made  a  background  that  gave  a  strong  relief  to 
Bertha's  pale  face  as  I  entered.  She  started  for- 
ward as  she  saw  me  enter,  and  then  looked  at 
Meunier  with  an  expression  of  angry  inquiry ;  but 
he  lifted  up  his  hand  as  if  to  impose  silence,  while 
he  fixed  his  glance  on  the  dying  woman  and  felt 
her  pulse.  The  face  was  pinched  and  ghastly,  a 
cold  perspiration  was  on  the  forehead,  and  the 
eyelids  were  lowered  so  as  almost  to  conceal  the 
large  dark  eyes.  After  a  minute  or  two,  Meunier 
walked  round  to  the  other  side  of  the  bed  where 
Bertha  stood,  and  with  his  usual  air  of  gentle 
politeness  towards  her  begged  her  to  leave  the 
patient  under  our  care,  —  everything  should  be 
done  for  her,  —  she  was  no  longer  in  a  state  to  be 
conscious  of  an  affectionate  presence.  Bertha  was 
hesitating,  apparently  almost  willing  to  believe 
his  assurance  and  to  comply.  She  looked  round 
at  the  ghastly  dying  face,  as  if  to  read  the  con- 
firmation of  that  assurance,  when  for  a  moment 
the  lowered  eyelids  were  raised  again,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  the  eyes  were  looking  towards  Bertha, 
but  blankly.  A  shudder  passed  through  Bertha's 
frame,  and  she  returned  to  her  station  near  the 
pillow,  tacitly  implying  that  she  would  not  leave 
the  room. 

The  eyelids  were  lifted  no  more.  Once  I  looked 
at  Bertha  as  she  watched  the  face  of  the  dying  one. 
She  wore  a  rich  peignoir,  and  her  blond  hair  was 
half  covered  by  a  lace  cap :  in  her  attire  she  was, 
as  always,  an  elegant  woman,  fit  to  figure  in  a 
picture  of  modern  aristocratic  life :  but  I  asked 
myself   how   that   face   of   hers   could   ever   have 


3IO  THE  LIFTED  VEIL. 

seemed  to  me  the  face  of  a  woman  born  of  woman, 
with  memories  of  childhood,  capable  of  pain, 
needing  to  be  fondled  ?  The  features  at  that 
moment  seemed  so  preternaturally  sharp,  the  eyes 
were  so  hard  and  eager,  — she  looked  like  a  cruel 
immortal,  finding  her  spiritual  feast  in  the  agonies 
of  a  dying  race.  For  across  those  hard  features 
there  came  something  like  a  flash  when  the  last 
hour  had  been  breathed  out,  and  we  all  felt  that 
the  dark  veil  had  completely  fallen.  What  secret 
was  there  between  Bertha  and  this  woman  ?  I 
turned  my  eyes  from  her  with  a  horrible  dread  lest 
my  insight  should  return,  and  I  should  be  obliged 
to  see  what  had  been  breeding  about  two  unloving 
women's  hearts.  I  felt  that  Bertha  had  been 
watching  for  the  moment  of  death  as  the  sealing 
of  her  secret :  I  thanked  Heaven  it  could  remain 
sealed  for  me. 

Meunier  said  quietly,  "  She  is  gone. "  He  then 
gave  his  arm  to  Bertha,  and  she  submitted  to  be 
led  out  of  the  room. 

I  suppose  it  was  at  her  order  that  two  female 
attendants  came  into  the  room,  and  dismissed  the 
younger  one  who  had  been  present  before.  When 
they  entered,  Meunier  had  already  opened  the 
artery  in  the  long  thin  neck  that  lay  rigid  on  the 
pillow,  and  I  dismissed  them,  ordering  them  to 
remain  at  a  distance  till  we  rang :  the  doctor,  I 
said,  had  an  operation  to  perform,  — he  was  not 
sure  about  the  death.  For  the  next  twenty 
minutes  I  forgot  everything  but  Meunier  and  the 
experiment  in  which  he  was  so  absorbed  that  I 
think  his  senses  would  have  been  closed  against 
all  sounds  or  sights  which  had  no  relation  to  it. 
It  was  my  task  at  first  to  keep  up  the  artificial 


THE  LIFTED  YEIL.  311 

respiration  in  the  body  after  the  transfusion  had 
been  effected,  but  presently  Meunier  relieved  me, 
and  I  could  see  the  wondrous  slow  return  of  life ; 
the  breast  began  to  heave,  the  inspirations  became 
stronger,  the  eyelids  quivered,  and  the  soul  seemed 
to  have  returned  beneath  them.  The  artificial 
respiration  was  withdrawn :  still  the  breathing 
continued,  and  there  was  a  movement  of  the  lips. 

Just  then  I  heard  the  handle  of  the  door  mov- 
ing :  I  suppose  Bertha  had  heard  from  the  women 
that  they  had  been  dismissed :  probably  a  vague 
fear  had  arisen  in  her  mind,  for  she  entered  with 
a  look  of  alarm.  She  came  to  the  foot  of  the  bed 
and  gave  a  stifled  cry. 

The  dead  woman's  eyes  were  wdde  open,  and 
met  hers  in  full  recognition,  —  the  recognition 
of  hate.  With  a  sudden  strong  effort,  the  hand 
that  Bertha  had  thought  forever  still  was  pointed 
towards  her,  and  the  haggard  face  moved.  The 
gasping  eager  voice  said,  — 

"  You  mean  to  poison  your  husband  .  .  .  the 
poison  is  in  the  black  cabinet  ...  I  got  it  for 
you  .  .  .  you  laughed  at  me,  and  told  lies  about 
me  behind  my  back,  to  make  me  disgusting  .  .  . 
because  you  were  jealous  ...  are  you  sorry  .  .  . 
now  ?  " 

The  lips  continued  to  murmur,  but  the  sounds 
were  no  longer  distinct.  Soon  there  was  no 
sound,  —  only  a  slight  movement :  the  flame  had 
leaped  out,  and  was  being  extinguished  the  faster. 
The  wretched  woman's  heart-strings  had  been  set 
to  hatred  and  vengeance ;  the  spirit  of  life  had 
swept  the  chords  for  an  instant,  and  was  gone 
again  forever.  Great  God !  Is  this  what  it  is  to 
live  again  ...   to  wake   up  with  our   unstilled 


312  THE  LIPTED  VEIL. 

thirst  upon  us,  with  our  unuttered  curses  rising  to 
our  lips,  with  our  muscles  ready  to  act  out  their 
half-committed  sins  ? 

Bertha  stood  pale  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  quiver- 
ing and  helpless,  despairing  of  devices,  like  a  cun- 
ning animal  whose  hiding-places  are  surrounded 
by  swift-advancing  flame.  Even  Meunier  looked 
paralyzed ;  life  for  that  moment  ceased  to  be  a 
scientific  problem  to  him.  As  for  me,  this  scene 
seemed  of  one  texture  with  the  rest  of  my  exist- 
ence :  horror  was  my  familiar,  and  this  new  revela- 
tion was  only  like  an  old  pain  recurring  with  new 
circumstances. 


Since  then  Bertha  and  I  have  lived  apart,  — 
she  in  her  own  neighbourhood,  the  mistress  of 
half  our  wealth ;  I  as  a  wanderer  in  foreign  coun- 
tries, until  I  came  to  this  Devonshire  nest  to  die. 
Bertha  lives  pitied  and  admired ;  for  what  had  I 
against  that  charming  woman,  whom  every  one 
but  myself  could  have  been  happy  with  ?  There 
had  been  no  witness  of  the  scene  in  the  dying 
room  except  Meunier,  and  while  Meunier  lived  his 
lips  were  sealed  by  a  promise  to  me. 

Once  or  twice,  weary  of  wandering,  I  rested  in 
a  favourite  spot,  and  my  heart  went  out  towards 
the  men  and  women  and  children  whose  faces  were 
becoming  familiar  to  me ;  but  I  was  driven  away 
again  in  terror  at  the  approach  of  my  old  insight, 

—  driven  away  to  live  continually  with  the  one 
Unknown  Presence  revealed  and  yet  hidden  by  the 
moving  curtain  of  the  earth  and  sky.  Till  at  last 
disease  took  hold  of  me  and  forced  me  to  rest  here, 

—  forced  me  to  live  in  dependence  on  my  servants. 


THE  LIFTED  VEIL.  313 

And  then  the  curse  of  insight,  of  my  double 
consciousness,  came  again,  and  has  never  left  me. 
I  know  all  their  narrow  thoughts,  their  feeble 
regard,  their  half-wearied  pity. 

It  is  the  20th  of  September,  1850.  I  know 
these  figures  I  have  just  written,  as  if  they  were  a 
long  familiar  inscription.  I  have  seen  them  on 
this  page  in  my  desk  unnumbered  times,  when 
the  scene  of  my  dying  struggle  has  opened  upon 
me.  .   .  . 


BROTHER   JACOB. 


Trompeurs,  c'est  pour  vous  que  j'ecris, 
Attendez  vous  a  la  pareille. 

La  Fontaine. 


BKOTHEE    JACOB. 


CHAPTEE  I. 

Among  the  many  fatalities  attending  the  bloom  of 
young  desire,  that  of  blindly  taking  to  the  con- 
fectionery line  has  not,  perhaps,  been  sufficiently 
considered.  How  is  the  son  of  a  British  yeoman, 
who  has  been  fed  principally  on  salt  pork  and 
yeast  dumplings,  to  know  that  there  is  satiety  for 
the  human  stomach  even  in  a  paradise  of  glass  jars 
full  of  sugared  almonds  and  pink  lozenges,  and 
that  the  tedium  of  life  can  reach  a  pitch  where 
plum-buns  at  discretion  cease  to  offer  the  slightest 
enticement?  Or  how,  at  the  tender  age  when  a 
confectioner  seems  to  him  a  very  prince  whom  all  the 
world  must  envy,  —  who  breakfasts  on  macaroons, 
dines  on  marengs,  sups  on  twelfth-cake,  and  fills  up 
the  intermediate  hours  with  sugar-candy  or  pepper- 
mint, —  how  is  he  to  foresee  the  day  of  sad  wisdom, 
when  he  will  discern  that  the  confectioner's  calling 
is  not  socially  influential,  or  favourable  to  a  soaring 
ambition  ?  I  have  known  a  man  who  turned  out 
to  have  a  metaphysical  genius,  incautiously,  in  the 
period  of  youthful  buoyancy,  commence  his  career 
as  a  dancing-master;  and  you  may  imagine  the 
use  that  was  made  of  this  initial  mistake  by  op- 
ponents who  felt  themselves  bound   to   warn   the 


3i8  BROTHER  JACOB. 

public  against  his  doctrine  of  the  Inconceivable.  He 
could  not  give  up  his  dancing-lessons,  because  he 
made  his  bread  by  them,  and  metaphysics  would 
not  have  found  him  in  so  much  as  salt  to  his  bread. 
It  was  really  the  same  with  Mr.  David  Faux  and 
the  confectionery  business.  His  uncle,  the  butler 
at  the  great  house  close  by  Brigford,  had  made  a 
pet  of  him  in  his  early  boyhood,  and  it  was  on  a 
visit  to  this  uncle  that  the  confectioners'  shops  in 
that  brillant  town  had,  oi^  a  single  day,  fired  his 
tender  imagination.  He  carried  home  the  pleasing 
illusion  that  a  confectioner  must  be  at  once  the 
happiest  and  the  foremost  of  men,  since  the  things 
he  made  were  not  only  the  most  beautiful  to  be- 
hold, but  the  very  best  eating,  and  such  as  the  Lord 
Mayor  must  always  order  largely  for  his  private 
recreation  ;  so  that  when  his  father  declared  he 
must  be  put  to  a  trade,  David  chose  his  line  with- 
out a  moment's  hesitation ;  and  with  a  rashness 
inspired  by  a  sweet  tooth,  wedded  himself  irrevo- 
cably to  confectionery.  Soon,  however,  the  tooth 
lost  its  relish  and  fell  into  blank  indifference ;  and 
all  the  while  his  mind  expanded,  his  ambition  took 
new  shapes,  which  could  hardly  be  satisfied  within 
the  sphere  his  youthful  ardour  had  chosen.  But 
what  was  he  to  do  ?  He  was  a  young  man  of  much 
mental  activity,  and,  above  all,  gifted  with  a  spirit 
of  contrivance ;  but  then,  his  faculties  would  not 
tell  with  great  effect  in  any  other  medium  than 
that  of  candied  sugars,  conserves,  and  pastry.  Say 
what  you  will  about  the  identity  of  the  reasoning 
process  in  all  branches  of  thought,  or  about  the 
advantage  of  coming  to  subjects  with  a  fresh 
mind,  the  adjustment  of  butter  to  flour,  and  of  heat 
to  pastry,  is  not  the  best  preparation  for  the  office 


BROTHER  JACOB.  319 

of  prime  minister ;  besides,  in  the  present  imper- 
fectly organized  state  of  society,  there  are  social 
barriers.  David  could  invent  delightful  things  in 
the  way  of  drop-cakes,  and  he  had  the  widest  views 
of  the  sugar  department;  but  in  other  directions 
he  certainly  felt  hampered  by  the  want  of  knowl- 
edge and  practical  skill ;  and  the  world  is  so 
inconveniently  constituted  that  the  vague  con- 
sciousness of  being  a  fine  fellow  is  no  guarantee 
of  success  in  any  line  of  business. 

This  difficulty  pressed  with  some  severity  on  ]\Ir. 
David  Faux,  even  before  his  apprenticeship  was 
ended.  His  soul  swelled  with  an  impatient  sense 
that  he  ought  to  become  something  very  remark- 
able,—  that  it  was  quite  out  of  the  question  for 
him  to  put  up  with  a  narrow  lot  as  other  men  did : 
he  scorned  the  idea  that  he  could  accept  an  average. 
He  was  sure  there  was  nothing  average  about  him : 
even  such  a  person  as  Mrs.  Tibbits,  the  washer- 
woman, perceived  it,  and  probably  had  a  preference 
for  his  linen.  At  that  particular  period  he  was 
weighing  out  gingerbread-nuts ;  but  such  an  anom- 
aly could  not  continue.  No  position  could  be  suited 
to  Mr.  Da^'id  Faux  that  was  not  in  the  highest  de- 
gree easy  to  the  flesh  and  flattering  to  the  spirit.  If 
he  had  fallen  on  the  present  times,  and  enjoyed  the 
advantages  of  a  Mechanics'  Institute,  he  would 
certainly  have  taken  to  literature  and  have  written 
reviews ;  but  his  education  had  not  been  liberal. 
He  had  read  some  novels  from  the  adjoining  cir- 
culating library,  and  had  even  bought  the  story  of 
"  Inkle  and  Yarico,"  which  had  made  him  feel  very 
sorry  for  poor  Mr.  Inkle ;  so  that  his  ideas  might 
not  have  been  below  a  certain  mark  of  the  liter- 
ary calling ;  but  his  spelling  and  diction  were  too 
unconventional. 


320  BROTHER  JACOB. 

When  a  man  is  not  adequately  appreciated  or 
comfortably  placed  in  his  own  country,  his  thoughts 
naturally  turn  towards  foreign  climes ;  and  David's 
imagination  circled  round  and  round  the  utmost 
limits  of  his  geographical  knowledge,  in  search  of  a 
country  where  a  young  gentleman  of  pasty  visage, 
lipless  mouth  and  stumpy  hair  would  be  likely  to 
be  received  with  the  hospitable  enthusiasm  which 
he  had  a  right  to  expect.  Having  a  general  idea  of 
America  as  a  country  where  the  population  was 
chiefly  black,  it  appeared  to  him  the  most  propitious 
destination  for  an  emigrant  who,  to  begin  with,  had 
the  broad  and  easily  recognizable  merit  of  white- 
ness ;  and  this  idea  gradually  took  such  strong 
possession  of  him  that  Satan  seized  the  opportunity 
of  suggesting  to  him  that  he  might  emigrate  under 
easier  circumstances  if  he  supplied  himself  with  a 
little  money  from  his  master's  till.  But  that  evil 
spirit,  whose  understanding,  I  am  convinced,  has 
been  much  overrated,  quite  wasted  his  time  on  this 
occasion.  David  would  certainly  have  liked  well  to 
have  some  of  his  master's  money  in  his  pocket,  if  he 
had  been  sure  his  master  would  have  been  the  only 
man  to  suffer  for  it ;  but  he  was  a  cautious  youth, 
and  quite  determined  to  run  no  risks  on  his  own 
account.  So  he  stayed  out  his  apprenticeship,  and 
committed  no  act  of  dishonesty  that  was  at  all 
likely  to  be  discovered,  reserving  his  plan  of  emigra- 
tion for  a  future  opportunity.  And  the  circumstances 
under  which  he  carried  it  out  were  in  this  wise. 
Having  been  at  home  a  week  or  two  partakmg  of 
the  family  beans,  he  had  used  his  leisure  in  ascer- 
taining a  fact  which  was  of  considerable  importance 
to  him,  namely,  that  his  mother  had  a  small  sum 
in  guineas  painfully  saved  from   her   maiden   per- 


BROTHER  JACOB.  321 

quisites,  and  kept  in  the  corner  of  a  drawer  where 
her  baby-linen  had  reposed  for  the  last  twenty 
years, —  ever  since  her  son  David  had  taken  to  his 
feet,  with  a  slight  promise  of  bow-legs  which  had 
not  been  altogether  unfulfilled.  Mr.  Faux,  senior, 
had  told  his  son  very  frankly,  that  he  must  not 
look  to  being  set  up  in  business  by  him :  with  seven 
sons,  and  one  of  them  a  very  healthy  and  well-de- 
veloped idiot,  who  consumed  a  dumpling  about  eight 
inches  in  diameter  every  day,  it  was  pretty  well  if 
they  got  a  hundred  apiece  at  his  death.  Under 
these  circumstances,  what  was  David  to  do  ?  It  was 
certainly  hard  that  he  should  take  his  mother's 
money ;  but  he  saw  no  other  ready  means  of  getting 
any,  and  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  a  young  man 
of  his  merit  should  put  up  with  inconveniences  that 
could  be  avoided.  Besides,  it  is  not  robbery  to  take 
property  belonging  to  your  mother :  she  does  n't 
prosecute  you.  And  David  was  very  well  behaved 
to  his  mother ;  he  comforted  her  by  speaking  highly 
of  himself  to  her,  and  assuring  her  that  he  never 
fell  into  the  vices  he  saw  practised  by  other  youths 
of  his  own  age,  and  that  he  was  particularly  fond  of 
honesty.  If  his  mother  would  have  given  him  her 
twenty  guineas  as  a  reward  of  this  noble  disposition, 
he  really  would  not  have  stolen  them  from  her,  and 
it  would  have  been  more  agreeable  to  his  feelings. 
Nevertheless,  to  an  active  mind  like  David's,  in- 
genuity is  not  without  its  pleasures :  it  was  rather 
an  interesting  occupation  to  become  stealthily  ac- 
quainted with  the  wards  of  his  mother's  simple  key 
(not  in  the  least  like  Chubb's  patent),  and  to  get  one 
that  would  do  its  work  equally  well ;  and  also  to 
arrange  a  little  drama  by  which  he  would  escape 
suspicion,  and  run  no  risk  of  forfeiting  the  prospec- 
21 


322  BROTHER  JACOB. 

tive  hundred  at  his  father's  death,  which  would  be 
convenient  in  the  improbable  case  of  his  not  making 
a  large  fortune  in  the  "  Indies." 

First,  he  spoke  freely  of  his  intention  to  start 
shortly  for  Liverpool  and  take  ship  for  America ;  a 
resolution  which  cost  his  good  mother  some  pain, 
for,  after  Jacob  the  idiot,  there  was  not  one  of  her 
sons  to  whom  her  heart  clung  more  than  to  her 
youngest-born,  David.  Next,  it  appeared  to  him 
that  Sunday  afternoon,  ,when  everybody  was  gone 
to  church  except  Jacob  and  the  cow-boy,  was  so 
singularly  favourable  an  opportunity  for  sons  who 
wanted  to  appropriate  their  mothers'  guineas,  that 
he  half  thought  it  must  have  been  kindly  intended 
by  Providence  for  such  purposes.  Especially  the 
third  Sunday  in  Lent ;  because  Jacob  had  been  out 
on  one  of  his  occasional  wanderings  for  the  last  two 
days ;  and  David,  being  a  timid  young  man,  had  a 
considerable  dread  and  hatred  of  Jacob,  as  of  a  large 
personage  who  went  about  habitually  with  a  pitch- 
fork in  his  hand. 

Nothing  could  be  easier,  then,  than  for  David  on 
this  Sunday  afternoon  to  decline  going  to  church,  on 
the  ground  that  he  was  going  to  tea  at  Mr.  Lunn's, 
whose  pretty  daughter  Sally  had  been  an  early 
flame  of  his,  and,  when  the  cliurch-goers  were  at  a 
safe  distance,  to  abstract  the  guineas  from  their 
wooden  box  and.  slip  them  into  a  small  canvas  bag, 
—  nothing  easier  than  to  call  to  the  cow-boy  that 
he  was  going,  and  tell  him  to  keep  an  eye  on  the 
house  for  fear  of  Sunday  tramps.  David  thought 
it  would  be  easy,  too,  to  get  to  a  small  thicket  and 
bury  his  bag  in  a  hole  he  had  already  made  and 
covered  up  under  the  roots  of  an  old  hollow  ash, 
and  he  had,  in   fact,   found  the  hole   without  a 


BROTHER  JACOB.  323 

moment's  difficulty,  had  uncovered  it,  and  was 
about  gently  to  drop  the  bag  into  it,  when  the 
sound  of  a  large  body  rustling  towards  him  with 
something  like  a  bellow  was  such  a  surprise  to 
David,  who,  as  a  gentleman  gifted  with  much  con- 
trivance, was  naturally  only  prepared  for  what  he 
expected,  that  instead  of  dropping  the  bag  gently  he 
let  it  fall  so  as  to  make  it  untwist  and  vomit  forth 
the  shining  guineas.  In  the  same  moment  he 
looked  up  and  saw  his  dear  brother  Jacob  close 
upon  him,  holding  the  pitchfork  so  that  the  bright 
smooth  prongs  were  a  yard  in  advance  of  his  own 
body,  and  about  a  foot  off  David's.  (A  learned 
friend,  to  w^hom  I  once  narrated  this  history,  ob- 
served that  it  was  David's  guilt  which  made  these 
prongs  formidable,  and  that  the  mens  nil  conscia 
sibi  strips  a  pitchfork  of  all  terrors.  I  thought  this 
idea  so  valuable  that  I  obtained  his  leave  to  use  it 
on  condition  of  suppressing  his  name.)  Neverthe- 
less, David  did  not  entirely  lose  his  presence  of 
mind ;  for  in  that  case  he  would  have  sunk  on  the 
earth  or  started  backward ;  whereas  he  kept  his 
ground  and  smiled  at  Jacob,  who  nodded  his  head 
up  and  down,  and  said,  "  Hoich,  Zavy  ! "  in  a  pain- 
fully equivocal  manner.  Da\dd's  heart  was  beating 
audibly,  and  if  he  had  had  any  lips  they  would 
have  been  pale ;  but  his  mental  acti\dty,  instead  of 
being  paralyzed,  was  stimulated.  While  he  was 
inwardly  praying  (he  always  prayed  when  he  was 
much  frightened),  "  Oh,  save  me  this  once,  and 
I  '11  never  get  into  danger  again  ! "  he  was  thrust- 
ing his  hand  into  his  pocket  in  search  of  a  box 
of  yellow  lozenges,  which  he  had  brought  with 
him  from  Brigford  among  other  delicacies  of  the 
same  portable  kind,  as  a  means  of  conciliating  proud 


324  BROTHER  JACOB. 

beauty,  and  more  particularly  the  beauty  of  Miss 
Sarah  Lunn.  Not  one  of  these  delicacies  had  he 
ever  offered  to  poor  Jacob,  for  David  was  not  a 
young  man  to  waste  his  jujubes  and  barley-sugar 
in  giving  pleasure  to  people  from  whom  he  expected 
nothing.  But  an  idiot  with  equivocal  intentions 
and  a  pitchfork  is  as  well  worth  flattering  and 
cajoling  as  if  he  were  Louis  Napoleon.  So  David, 
with  a  promptitude  equal  to  the  occasion,  drew 
out  his  box  of  yellow  lozenges,  lifted  the  lid, 
and  performed  a  pant6mime  with  his  mouth  and 
fingers,  which  was  meant  to  imply  that  he  was  de- 
lighted to  see  his  dear  brother  Jacob,  and  seized  the 
opportunity  of  making  him  a  small  present,  which 
he  would  find  particularly  agreeable  to  the  taste. 
Jacob,  you  understand,  was  not  an  intense  idiot,  but 
within  a  certain  limited  range  knew  how  to  choose 
the  good  and  reject  the  evil :  he  took  one  lozenge, 
by  way  of  test,  and  sucked  it  as  if  he  had  been  a 
philosopher ;  then,  in  as  great  an  ecstasy  at  its  nev/ 
and  complex  savour  as  Caliban  at  the  taste  of  Trin- 
culo's  wine,  chuckled  and  stroked  this  suddenly 
beneficent  brother,  and  held  out  his  hand  for  more  ; 
for,  except  in  fits  of  anger,  Jacob  was  not  ferocious 
or  needlessly  predatory.  David's  courage  half  re- 
turned, and  he  left  off  praying ;  pouring  a  dozen 
lozenges  into  Jacob's  palm,  and  trying  to  look  very 
fond  of  him.  He  congratulated  himself  that  he  had 
formed  the  plan  of  going  to  see  Miss  Sally  Lunn 
this  afternoon,  and  that,  as  a  consequence,  he  had 
brought  with  him  these  propitiatory  delicacies :  he 
was  certainly  a  lucky  fellow;  indeed,  it  was  always 
likely  Providence  should  be  fonder  of  him  than  of 
other  apprentices,  and  since  he  was  to  be  inter- 
rupted, why,  an  idiot  was  preferable  to  any  other 


BROTHER  JACOB.  325 

sort  of  witness.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  David 
thought  he  saw  the  advantage  of  idiots. 

As  for  Jacob,  he  had  tlirust  his  pitchfork  into  the 
ground,  and  had  thrown  himself  down  beside  it,  in 
thorough  abandonment  to  the  unprecedented  pleasure 
of  having  five  lozenges  in  his  mouth  at  once,  blinking 
meanwhile,  and  making  inarticulate  sounds  of  gusta- 
tive  content.  He  had  not  yet  given  any  sign  of 
noticmg  the  guineas,  but  in  seating  himself  he  had 
laid  his  broad  right  hand  on  them,  and  unconsciously 
kept  it  in  that  position,  absorbed  in  the  sensations 
of  his  palate.  If  he  could  only  be  kept  so  occupied 
with  the  lozenges  as  not  to  see  the  guineas  before 
David  could  manage  to  cover  them !  That  was 
David's  best  hope  of  safety;  for  Jacob  knew  his 
mother's  guineas  :  it  had  been  part  of  their  common 
experience  as  boys  to  be  allowed  to  look  at  these 
handsome  coins,  and  rattle  them  in  their  box  on 
high  days  and  holidays,  and  among  all  Jacob's  nar- 
row experiences  as  to  money,  this  was  likely  to  be 
the  most  memorable. 

"  Here,  Jacob,"  said  David,  in  an  insinuating  tone, 
handing  the  box  to  him,  "  I  '11  give  'em  all  to  you. 
Run  !  —  make  haste  !  —  else  somebody  '11  come  and 
take  'em." 

David,  not  having  studied  the  psychology  of  idiots, 
was  not  av/are  that  they  are  not  to  be  wrought  upon 
by  imaginative  fears.  Jacob  took  the  box  with  his 
left  hand,  but  saw  no  necessity  for  running  away. 
Was  ever  a  promising  young  man  wishing  to  lay  the 
foundation  of  his  fortune  by  appropriating  his  moth- 
er's guineas  obstructed  by  such  a  day-mare  as  tliis  ? 
But  the  moment  must  come  when  Jacob  would 
move  his  right  hand  to  draw  off  the  lid  of  the  tin 
box,  and  then  David  would  sweep  the  guineas  into 


326  BROTHER  JACOB. 

the  hole  with  the  utmost  address  and  swiftness,  and 
immediately  seat  himself  upon  them.  Ah,  no !  It 's 
of  no  use  to  have  foresight  when  you  are  dealing  with 
an  idiot :  he  is  not  to  be  calculated  upon.  Jacob's 
right  hand  was  given  to  vague  clutching  and  throw- 
ing ;  it  suddenly  clutched  the  guineas  as  if  they  had 
been  so  many  pebbles,  and  was  raised  in  an  attitude 
which  promised  to  scatter  them  like  seed  over  a 
distant  bramble,  when,  from  some  prompting  or 
other,  —  probably  of  an  unwonted  sensation,  —  it 
paused,  descended  to  Jacob's  knee,  and  opened 
slowly  under  the  inspection  of  Jacob's  dull  eyes. 
David  began  to  pray  again,  but  immediately  de- 
sisted, —  another  resource  having  occurred  to  him. 

"  Mother  !  zinnies  ! "  exclaimed  the  innocent  Jacob. 
Then,  looking  at  David,  he  said  interrogatively, 
"Box?" 

"  Hush !  hush  ! "  said  David,  summoning  all  his 
ingenuity  in  this  severe  strait.  "  See,  Jacob  ! "  He 
took  the  tin  box  from  his  brother's  hand,  and  emptied 
it  of  the  lozenges,  returning  half  of  them  to  Jacob, 
but  secretly  keeping  the  rest  in  his  own  hand.  Then 
he  held  out  the  empty  box,  and  said,  "  Here 's  the 
box,  Jacob  !  The  box  for  the  guineas  ! "  gently  sweep- 
ing them  from  Jacob's  palm  into  the  box. 

This  procedure  was  not  objectionable  to  Jacob  ; 
on  the  contrary,  the  guineas  clinked  so  pleasantly 
as  they  fell,  that  he  wished  for  a  repetition  of  the 
sound,  and,  seizing  the  box,  began  to  rattle  it  very 
gleefully.  David,  seizing  the  opportunity,  deposited 
his  reserve  of  lozenges  in  the  ground  and  hastily 
swept  some  earth  over  them.  "  Look,  Jacob ! "  he 
said,  at  last.  Jacob  paused  from  his  clinking,  and 
looked  into  the  hole,  while  David  began  to  scratch 
away  the  earth,  as  if  in  doubtful  expectation.     When 


BROTHER  JACOB.  327 

the  lozenges  were  laid  bare,  he  took  them  out  one 
by  one,  and  gave  them  to  Jacob. 

"  Hush  ! "  he  said,  in  a  loud  whisper,  "  tell  nobody 
—  all  for  Jacob  —  hush  —  sh  —  sh  !  Put  guineas  in 
the  hole,  —  they  '11  come  out  like  this ! "  To  make 
the  lesson  more  complete,  he  took  a  guinea,  and, 
lowering  it  into  the  hole,  said,  "  Put  in  so."  Then, 
as  he  took  the  last  lozenge  out,  he  said,  "  Come  out 
so,"  and  put  the  lozenge  into  Jacob's  hospitable 
mouth. 

Jacob  turned  his  head  on  one  side,  looked  rirst  at 
his  brother  and  then  at  the  hole,  like  a  reflective 
monkey,  and  finally  laid  the  box  of  guineas  in  the 
hole  with  much  decision.  David  made  haste  to  add 
every  one  of  the  stray  coins,  put  on  the  lid,  and 
covered  it  well  with  earth,  saying  in  his  most 
coaxing  tone,  — 

"  Take  'm  out  to-morrow,  Jacob ;  all  for  Jacob ! 
Hush  —  sh  —  sh  ! " 

Jacob,  to  whom  this  once  indifferent  brother  had 
all  at  once  become  a  sort  of  sweet-tasted  fetish, 
stroked  David's  best  coat  with  his  adhesive  fingers, 
and  then  hugged  him  with  an  accompaniment  of 
that  mingled  chuckling  and  gurgling  by  which  he 
was  accustomed  to  express  the  milder  passions. 
But  if  he  had  chosen  to  bite  a  small  morsel  out 
of  his  beneficent  brother's  cheek,  David  would  have 
been  obliged  to  bear  it. 

And  here  I  must  pause,  to  point  out  to  you  the 
short-sightedness  of  human  contrivance.  This  in- 
genious young  man,  Mr.  David  Faux,  thought  he 
had  achieved  a  triumph  of  cunning  when  he  had 
associated  himself  in  his  brother's  rudimentary 
mind  with  the  flavour  of  yellow  lozenges.  But  he 
had  yet  to  learn  that  it  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  make 


328  BROTHER  JACOB. 

an  idiot  fond  of  you,  when  you  yourself  are  not  of 
an  affectionate  disposition :  especially  an  idiot  with 
a  pitchfork,  —  obviously  a  difdcult  friend  to  shake 
off  by  rough  usage. 

It  may  seem  to  you  rather  a  blundering  contriv- 
ance for  a  clever  young  man  to  bury  the  guineas. 
But  if  everything  had  turned  out  as  David  had 
calculated,  you  would  have  seen  that  his  plan  was 
worthy  of  his  talents.  The  guineas  would  have 
lain  safely  in  the  earth  while  the  theft  was  dis- 
covered, and  David,  with  the  calm  of  conscious 
innocence,  would  have  lingered  at  home,  reluctant 
to  say  good-by  to  his  dear  mother  while  she  was  in 
grief  about  her  guineas ;  till  at  length,  on  the  eve 
of  his  departure,  he  would  have  disinterred  them 
in  the  strictest  privacy,  and  carried  them  on  his 
own  person  without  inconvenience.  But  David, 
you  perceive,  had  reckoned  without  his  host,  or,  to 
speak  more  precisely,  without  his  idiot  brother, — 
an  item  of  so  uncertain  and  fluctuating  a  character 
that  I  doubt  whether  he  would  not  have  puzzled 
the  astute  heroes  of  M.  de  Balzac,  whose  foresight 
is  so  remarkably  at  home  in  the  future. 

It  was  clear  to  David  now  that  he  had  only  one 
alternative  before  him :  he  must  either  renounce 
the  guineas,  by  quietly  putting  them  back  in  his 
mother's  drawer  (a  course  not  unattended  with  dif- 
ficulty) ;  or  he  must  leave  more  than  a  suspicion 
behind  him,  by  departing  early  the  next  morning 
without  giving  notice,  and  with  the  guineas  in  his 
pocket.  For  if  he  gave  notice  that  he  was  going, 
his  mother,  he  knew,  would  insist  on  fetching 
from  her  box  of  guineas  the  three  she  had  always 
promised  him  as  his  share ;  indeed,  in  his  original 
plan,  he  had  counted  on  this  as  a  means  by  which 


BROTHER  JACOB.  329 

the  theft  would  be  discovered  under  circurastances 
that  would  themselves  speak  for  his  innocence ; 
but  now,  as  I  need  hardly  explain,  that  well-com- 
bined plan  was  completely  frustrated.  Even  if 
David  could  have  bribed  Jacob  with  perpetual 
lozenges,  an  idiot's  secrecy  is  itself  betrayal.  He 
dared  not  even  go  to  tea  at  Mr.  Lunn's,  for  in 
that  case  he  would  have  lost  sight  of  Jacob,  who, 
in  his  impatience  for  the  crop  of  lozenges,  might 
scratch  up  the  box  again  while  he  was  absent,  and 
carry  it  home,  —  depriving  him  at  once  of  reputa- 
tion and  guineas.  No !  he  must  think  of  nothing 
all  the  rest  of  this  day,  but  of  coaxing  Jacob  and 
keeping  him  out  of  mischief.  It  was  a  fatiguing 
and  anxious  evening  to  David;  nevertheless,  he 
dared  not  go  to  sleep  without  tying  a  piece  of 
string  to  his  thumb  and  great  toe,  to  secure  his 
frequent  waking ;  for  he  meant  to  be  up  with  the 
first  peep  of  dawn,  and  be  far  out  of  reach  before 
breakfast-time.  His  father,  he  thought,  would  cer- 
tainly cut  him  off  with  a  shilling  ;  but  what  then  ? 
Such  a  striking  young  man  as  he  would  be  sure 
to  be  well  received  in  the  West  Indies:  in  foreign 
countries  there  are  always  openings,  —  even  for 
cats.  It  w^as  probable  that  some  Princess  Yarico 
would  want  him  to  marry  her,  and  make  him  pres- 
ents of  very  large  jewels  beforehand ;  after  which, 
he  need  n't  marry  her  unless  he  liked.  David  had 
made  up  his  mind  not  to  steal  any  more,  even  from 
people  who  were  fond  of  him  :  it  was  an  unpleasant 
way  of  making  your  fortune  in  a  world  where  you 
were  likely  to  be  surprised  in  the  act  by  brothers. 
Such  alarms  did  not  agree  with  David's  constitu- 
tion, and  he  had  felt  so  much  nausea  this  evening 
that  no  doubt  his  Liver  was  affected.     Besides,  he 


330  BROTHER  JACOB. 

would  have  been  greatly  hurt  not  to  be  thought 
well  of  in  the  world:  he  always  meant  to  make 
a  figure,  and  be  thought  worthy  of  the  best  seats 
and  the  best  morsels. 

Kuminating  to  this  effect  on  the  brilliant  future 
in  reserve  for  him,  David  by  the  help  of  his  check- 
string  kept  himself  on  the  alert  to  seize  the  time 
of  earliest  dawn  for  his  rising  and  departure.  His 
brothers,  of  course,  were  early  risers,  but  he  should 
anticipate  them  by  at  least  an  hour  and  a  half,  and 
the  little  room  which  he  had  to  himself  as  only  an 
occasional  visitor,  had  its  window  over  the  horse- 
block, so  that  he  could  slip  out  through  the  window 
without  the  least  difficulty.  Jacob,  the  horrible 
Jacob,  had  an  awkward  trick  of  getting  up  before 
everybody  else,  to  stem  his  hunger  by  emptying  the 
milk-bowl  that  was  "  duly  set  "  for  him  ;  but  of  late 
he  had  taken  to  sleeping  in  the  hay-loft,  and  if  he 
came  into  the  house,  it  would  be  on  the  opposite 
side  to  that  from  which  David  was  making  his 
exit.  There  was  no  need  to  think  of  Jacob  ;  yet 
David  was  liberal  enough  to  bestow  a  curse  on  him, 
—  it  was  the  only  thing  he  ever  did  bestow  gratui- 
tously. His  small  bundle  of  clothes  was  ready 
packed,  and  he  was  soon  treading  lightly  on  the 
steps  of  the  horse-block,  soon  walking  at  a  smart 
pace  across  the  fields  towards  the  thicket.  It 
would  take  him  no  more  than  two  minutes  to  get 
out  the  box;  he  could  make  out  the  tree  it  was 
under  by  the  pale  strip  where  the  bark  was  off, 
although  the  dawning  light  was  rather  dimmer  in 
the  thicket.  But  what,  in  the  name  of  —  burnt 
pastry  —  was  that  large  body  with  a  staff  planted 
beside  it,  close  at  the  foot  of  the  ash-tree  ?  David 
paused,  not  to  make  up  his  mind  as  to  the  nature 


BROTHER  JACOR  331 

of  the  apparition,  —  he  had  not  the  happiness  of 
doubting  for  a  moment  that  the  staff  was  Jacob's 
pitchfork,  —  but  to  gather  the  self-command  neces- 
sary for  addressing  his  brother  with  a  sufficiently 
honeyed  accent.  Jacob  was  absorbed  in  scratching 
up  the  earth,  and  had  not  heard  David's  approach. 

"I  say,  Jacob,"  said  David,  in  a  loud  whisper, 
just  as  the  tin  box  was  lifted  out  of  the  hole. 

Jacob  looked  up,  and  discerning  his  sweet-fla- 
voured brother,  nodded  and  grinned  in  the  dim  light 
in  a  way  that  made  him  seem  to  David  like  a  trium- 
phant demon.  If  he  had  been  of  an  impetuous  dis- 
position, he  would  have  snatched  the  pitchfork  from 
the  ground  and  impaled  this  fraternal  demon.  But 
David  was  by  no  means  impetuous ;  he  was  a 
young  man  greatly  given  to  calculate  consequences, 
a  habit  which  has  been  held  to  be  the  foundation 
of  virtue.  But  somehow  it  had  not  precisely  that 
effect  in  David :  he  calculated  whether  an  action 
would  harm  himself,  or  whether  it  would  only 
harm  other  people.  In  the  former  case  he  was 
very  timid  about  satisfying  his  immediate  desires, 
but  in  the  latter  he  would  risk  the  result  with 
much  courage. 

"  Give  it  me,  Jacob,"  he  said,  stooping  down  and 
patting  his  brother.     "  Let  us  see." 

Jacob,  finding  the  lid  rather  tight,  gave  the  box 
to  his  brother  in  perfect  faith.  David  raised  the 
lid,  and  shook  his  head,  while  Jacob  put  his  finger 
in  and  took  out  a  guinea  to  taste  whether  the 
metamorphosis  into  lozenges  was  complete  and 
satisfactory. 

"  iSTo,  Jacob ;  too  soon,  too  soon,"  said  David, 
when  the  guinea  had  been  tasted.  "Give  it  me; 
we  '11  go  and  bury  it  somewhere  else ;  we  '11  put  it 


532 


BROTHER  JACOB. 


in  yonder,  he  added,  pointing  vaguely  toward  the 
distance. 

David  screwed  on  the  lid,  while  Jacob,  looking 
grave,  rose  and  grasped  his  pitchfork.  Then,  seeing 
David's  bundle,  he  snatched  it,  like  a  too  officious 
Newfoundland,  stuck  his  pitchfork  into  it  and  car- 
ried it  over  his  shoulder  in  triumph  as  he  accom- 
panied David  and  the  box  out  of  the  thicket. 

What  on  earth  was  David  to  do  ?  It  would  have 
been  easy  to  frown  at  Jacob,  and  kick  him,  and 
order  him  to  get  away ;  but  David  dared  as  soon 
have  kicked  the  bull.  Jacob  was  quiet  as  long  as 
he  was  treated  indulgently;  but  on  the  slightest 
show  of  anger,  he  became  unmanageable,  and  was 
liable  to  fits  of  fury  which  would  have  made  him 
formidable  even  without  his  pitchfork.  There  was 
no  mastery  to  be  obtained  over  him  except  by  kind- 
ness or  guile.     David  tried  guile. 

"  Go,  Jacob,"  he  said,  when  they  were  out  of  the 
thicket,  —  pointing  towards  the  house  as  he  spoke  ; 
"go  and  fetch  me  a  spade,  —  a  spade.  But  give 
me  the  bundle,"  he  added,  trying  to  reach  it  from 
the  fork,  where  it  hung  high  above  Jacob's  tall 
shoulder. 

But  Jacob  showed  as  much  alacrity  in  obeying 
as  a  wasp  shows  in  leaving  a  sugar-basin.  Near 
David,  he  felt  himself  in  the  vicinity  of  lozenges : 
he  chuckled  and  rubbed  his  brother's  back,  bran- 
dishing the  bundle  higher  out  of  reach.  David,  with 
an  inward  groan,  changed  his  tactics,  and  walked 
on  as  fast  as  he  could.  It  was  not  safe  to  linger. 
Jacob  would  get  tired  of  following  him,  or,  at  all 
events,  could  be  eluded.  If  they  could  once  get  to 
the  distant  high-road,  a  coach  would  overtake  them, 
David  would  mount  it,  having  previously  by  some 


BROTHER  JACOB.  333 

ingenious  mea,ns  secured  his  bundle,  and  then  Jacob 
might  howl  and  flourish  his  pitchfork  as  much 
as  he  liked.  Meanwhile  he  was  under  the  fatal 
necessity  of  being  very  kind  to  this  ogre,  and  of 
providing  a  large  breakfast  for  him  when  they 
stopped  at  a  roadside  inn.  It  was  already  three 
hours  since  they  had  started,  and  David  was  tired. 
Would  no  coach  be  coming  up  soon  ?  he  inquired. 
No  coach  for  the  next  two  hours.  But  there  was 
a  carrier's  cart  to  come  immediately,  on  its  way  to 
the  next  town.  If  he  could  slip  out,  even  leaving 
his  bundle  behind,  and  get  into  the  cart  without 
Jacob  !  But  there  was  a  new  obstacle.  Jacob  had 
recently  discovered  a  remnant  of  sugar-candy  in  one 
of  his  brother's  tail-pockets ;  and,  since  then,  had 
cautiously  kept  his  hold  on  that  limb  of  the 
garment,  perhaps  with  an  expectation  that  there 
would  be  a  further  development  of  sugar-candy 
after  a  longer  or  shorter  interval.  Now  every  one 
W'ho  has  worn  a  coat  will  understand  the  sensi- 
bilities that  must  keep  a  man  from  starting  away 
in  a  hurry  when  there  is  a  grasp  on  his  coat-tail. 
David  looked  forward  to  being  well  received  among 
strangers,  but  it  might  make  a  difference  if  he  had 
only  one  tail  to  his  coat. 

He  felt  himself  in  a  cold  perspiration.  He  could 
walk  no  more :  he  must  get  mto  the  cart  and  let 
Jacob  get  in  with  him.  Presently  a  cheering  idea 
occurred  to  him  :  after  so  large  a  breakfast  Jacob 
would  be  sure  to  go  to  sleep  in  the  cart ;  you  see  at 
once  that  David  meant  to  seize  his  bundle,  jump 
out,  and  be  free.  His  expectation  was  partly  ful- 
filled. Jacob  did  go  to  sleep  in  the  cart,  but  it  was 
in  a  peculiar  attitude,  —  it  was  with  his  arms 
tightly  fastened  round  his  dear  brother's  body ;  and 


334  BROTHER  JACOB. 

if  ever  David  attempted  to  move,  the  grasp  tightened 
with  the  force  of  an  affectionate  boa-constrictor. 

"Th'  innicent's  fond  on  you,"  observed  the  car- 
rier, thinking  that  David  was  probably  an  amiable 
brother,  and  wishing  to  pay  him  a  compliment. 

David  groaned.  The  ways  of  thieving  were  not 
ways  of  pleasantness.  Oh,  why  had  he  an  idiot 
brother  ?  Or  why,  in  general,  was  the  world  so 
constituted  that  a  man  could  not  take  his  moth- 
er's guineas  comfortably  ?  David  became  grimly 
speculative. 

Copious  dinner  at  noon  for  Jacob;  but  little 
dinner,  because  little  appetite,  for  David.  Instead 
of  eating,  he  plied  Jacob  with  beer;  for  through 
this  liberality  he  descried  a  hope.  Jacob  fell  into 
a  dead  sleep,  at  last,  without  having  his  arms  round 
David,  who  paid  the  reckoning,  took  his  bundle, 
and  walked  off.  In  another  half-hour  he  was  on 
the  coach  on  his  way  to  Liverpool,  smiling  the 
smile  of  the  triumphant  wicked.  He  was  rid  of 
Jacob,  —  he  was  bound  for  the  Indies,  where  a 
gullible  princess  awaited  him.  He  would  never 
steal  any  more,  but  there  would  be  no  need ;  he 
would  show  himself  so  deserving  that  people  would 
make  him  presents  freely.  He  must  give  up  the 
notion  of  his  father's  legacy ;  but  it  was  not  likely 
he  would  ever  want  that  trifle  ;  and  even  if  he 
did,  —  why,  it  was  a  compensation  to  think  that  in 
being  forever  divided  from  his  family  he  was  divided 
from  Jacob,  more  terrible  than  Gorgon  or  Demo- 
gorgon  to  David's  timid  green  eyes.  Thank  Heaven, 
he  should  never  see  Jacob  any  more  ! 


CHAPTER  II. 

It  was  nearly  six  years  after  the  departure  of  Mr. 
David  Faux  for  the  West  Indies,  that  the  vacant 
shop  in  the  market-place  at  Grimworth  was  under- 
stood to  have  been  let  to  the  stranger  with  a  sallow- 
complexion  and  a  buff  cravat,  whose  first  appear- 
ance had  caused  some  excitement  in  the  bar  of 
the  Woolpack,  where  he  had  called  to  wait  for  the 
coach. 

Grimworth,  to  a  discerning  eye,  was  a  good  place 
to  set  up  shopkeeping  in.  There  was  no  competi- 
tion in  it  at  present ;  the  Church-people  had  their 
own  grocer  and  draper ;  the  Dissenters  had  theirs ; 
and  the  two  or  three  butchers  found  a  ready 
market  for  their  joints  without  strict  reference  to 
religious  persuasion,  —  except  that  the  rector's  wife 
had  given  a  general  order  for  the  veal  sweet- 
breads and  the  mutton  kidneys,  while  Mr.  Eodd, 
the  Baptist  minister,  had  requested  that,  so  far 
as  was  compatible  with  the  fair  accommodation  of 
other  customers,  the  sheep's  trotters  might  be  re- 
served for  him.  And  it  was  likely  to  be  a  grow- 
ing place,  for  the  trustees  of  Mr.  Zephaniah  Crypt's 
Charity,  under  the  stimulus  of  a  late  visitation 
by  commissioners,  were  beginning  to  apply  long- 
accumulating  funds  to  the  rebuilding  of  the  Yellow 
Coat  School,  which  was  henceforth  to  be  carried 
forward  on  a  greatly  extended  scale,  the  testator 
having  left  no  restrictions  concerning  the  curricu- 
lum, but  only  concerning  the  coat. 


336  BROTHER  JACOB. 

The  shopkeepers  at  Grimworth  were  by  no  means 
unanimous  as  to  the  advantages  promised  by  this 
prospect  of  increased  population  and  trading,  being 
substantial  men,  who  liked  doing  a  quiet  business 
in  which  they  were  sure  of  their  customers,  and 
could  calculate  their  returns  to  a  nicety.  Hitherto 
it  had  been  held  a  point  of  honour  by  the  families 
in  Grimworth  parish,  to  buy  their  sugar  and  their 
flannel  at  the  shops  where  their  fathers  and  mothers 
had  bought  before  them  ;  but  if  new-comers  were 
to  bring  in  the  system  of  neck-and-neck  trading, 
and  solicit  feminine  eyes  by  gown-pieces  laid  in 
fan-like  folds,  and  surmounted  by  artificial  flowers, 
giving  them  a  factitious  charm  (for  on  what  human 
figure  would  a  gown  sit  like  a  fan,  or  what  female 
head  was  like  a  bunch  of  China-asters  ?),  or,  if  new 
grocers  were  to  fill  their  windows  with  mountains 
of  currants  and  sugar,  made  seductive  by  contrast 
and  tickets,  —  what  security  was  there  for  Grim- 
worth, that  a  vagrant  spirit  in  shopping,  once  in- 
troduced, would  not  in  the  end  carry  the  most 
important  families  to  the  larger  market  town  of 
Cattelton,  where,  business  being  done  on  a  system 
of  small  profits  and  quick  returns,  the  fashions 
were  of  the  freshest,  and  goods  of  all  kinds  might 
be  bought  at  an  advantage  ? 

With  this  view  of  the  times  predominant  among 
the  tradespeople  at  Grimworth,  their  uncertainty 
concerning  the  nature  of  the  business  which  the 
sallow-complexioned  stranger  was  about  to  set  up 
in  the  vacant  shop,  naturally  gave  some  additional 
strength  to  the  fears  of  the  less  sanguine.  If  he 
was  going  to  sell  drapery,  it  was  probable  that 
a  pale-faced  fellow  like  that  would  deal  in  showy 
and  inferior  articles,  —  printed  cottons  and  muslins 


BROTHER  JACOB.  337 

which  would  leave  their  dye  in  the  washtub,  jobbed 
linen  full  of  knots,  and  flannel  that  would  soon 
look  like  gauze.  If  grocery,  then  it  was  to  be 
hoped  that  no  mother  of  a  family  would  trust  the 
teas  of  an  untried  grocer.  Such  thmgs  had  been 
known  in  some  parishes  as  tradesmen  going  about 
canvassing  for  custom  with  cards  in  their  pockets  : 
when  people  came  from  nobody  knew  where,  there 
was  no  knowing  what  they  might  do.  It  was  a 
thousand  pities  that  Mr.  Moffat,  the  auctioneer 
and  broker,  had  died  without  leaving  anybody  to 
follow  him  in  the  business,  and  Mrs.  Cleve's  trustee 
ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  let  a  shop  to 
a  stranger.  Even  the  discovery  that  ovens  were 
being  put  up  on  the  premises,  and  that  the  shop 
was,  in  fact,  being  fitted  up  for  a  confectioner  and 
pastry-cook's  business,  hitherto  unknown  in  Grim- 
worth,  did  not  quite  suffice  to  turn  the  scale  in 
the  new-comer's  favour,  though  the  landlady  at  the 
Woolpack  defended  him  warmly,  said  he  seemed 
to  be  a  very  clever  young  man,  and  from  what  she 
could  make  out,  came  of  a  very  good  family ;  in- 
deed, was  most  likely  a  good  many  people's  betters. 

It  certainly  made  a  blaze  of  light  and  colour, 
almost  as  if  a  rainbow  had  suddenly  descended 
into  the  market-place,  when,  one  fine  morning,  the 
shutters  were  taken  down  from  the  new  shop,  and 
the  two  windows  displayed  their  decorations.  On 
one  side  there  were  the  variegated  tints  of  collared 
and  marbled  meats,  set  off  by  bright  green  leaves, 
the  pale  brown  of  glazed  pies,  the  rich  tones  of 
sauces  and  bottled  fruits  enclosed  in  their  veil  of 
glass,  —  altogether  a  sight  to  bring  tears  into  the 
eyes  of  a  Dutch  painter ;  and  on  the  other,  there 
was  a  predominance  of  the  more  delicate  hues  of 

22 


338  BROTHER  JACOB. 

pink  and  white  and  yellow  and  buff,  in  the  abun- 
dant lozenges,  candies,  sweet  biscuits,  and  icings, 
which  to  the  eyes  of  a  bilious  person  might  easily 
have  been  blended  into  a  faery  landscape  in  Turner's 
latest  style.  What  a  sight  to  dawn  upon  the  eyes 
of  Grimworth  children!  They  almost  forgot  to 
go  to  their  dinner  that  day,  theu'  appetites  being 
preoccupied  with  imaginary  sugar-plums ;  and  I 
think  even  Punch,  setting  up  his  tabernacle  in  the 
market-place,  would  not  have  succeeded  in  drawing 
them  away  from  those  shop-windows,  where  they 
stood  according  to  gradations  of  size  and  strength, 
the  biggest  and  strongest  being  nearest  the  window, 
and  the  little  ones  in  the  outermost  rows  lifting 
wide-open  eyes  and  mouths  towards  the  upper  tier 
of  jars,  like  small  birds  at  meal-time. 

The  elder  inhabitants  pished  and  pshawed  a  little 
at  the  folly  of  the  new  shopkeeper  in  venturing  on 
such  an  outlay  in  goods  that  would  not  keep  ;  to 
be  sure,  Christmas  was  coming,  but  what  housewife 
in  Grimworth  would  not  think  shame  to  furnish 
forth  her  table  with  articles  that  were  not  home- 
cooked  ?  No,  no.  Mr.  Edward  Freely,  as  he  called 
liimself,  was  deceived,  if  he  thought  Grimworth 
money  was  to  flow  into  his  pockets  on  such  terms. 

Edward  Freely  was  the  name  that  shone  in  gilt 
letters  on  a  mazarine  ground  over  the  doorplace  of 
the  new  shop,  —  a  generous-sounding  name,  that 
might  have  belonged  to  the  open-hearted,  impro- 
vident hero  of  an  old  comedy,  who  would  have 
delighted  in  raining  sugared  almonds,  like  a  new 
manna-gift,  among  that  small  generation  outside 
the  windows.  But  Mr.  Edward  Freely  was  a  man 
whose  impulses  were  kept  in  due  subordination : 
he  held  that  the  desire  for  sweets  and  pastry  must 


BROTHER  JACOB.  339 

only  be  satisfied  in  a  direct  ratio  with  the  power 
of  paying  for  them.  If  the  smallest  child  in  Grim- 
worth  would  go  to  him  with  a  halfpenny  in  its 
tiny  fist,  he  would,  after  ringing  the  halfpenny, 
deliver  a  just  equivalent  in  "  rock."  He  was  not 
a  man  to  cheat  even  the  smallest  child,  —  he  often 
said  so,  observing  at  the  same  time  that  he  loved 
honesty,  and  also  that  he  was  very  tender-hearted, 
though  he  did  n't  show  his  feelings  as  some  people 
did. 

Either  in  reward  of  such  virtue,  or  according  to 
some  more  hidden  law  of  sequence,  Mr.  Freely's 
business,  in  spite  of  prejudice,  started  under  favour- 
able auspices.  For  ]\Irs.  Chaloner,  the  rector's  wife, 
was  among  the  earliest  customers  at  the  shop, 
thinking  it  only  right  to  encourage  a  new  parishioner 
who  had  made  a  decorous  appearance  at  church ; 
and  she  found  Mr.  Freely  a  most  civil,  obliging 
young  man,  and  intelligent  to  a  surprising  degree 
for  a  confectioner  ;  well-principled,  too,  for  in  giving 
her  useful  hints  about  choosing  sugars  he  had  thrown 
much  light  on  the  dishonesty  of  other  tradesmen. 
j\Ioreover,  he  had  been  in  the  "West  Indies,  and  had 
seen  the  very  estate  which  had  been  her  poor  grand- 
father's property  ;  and  he  said  the  missionaries  were 
the  only  cause  of  the  negro's  discontent,  —  an 
observing  young  man,  evidently.  Mrs.  Chaloner 
ordered  wine-biscuits  and  olives,  and  gave  Mr. 
Freely  to  understand  that  she  should  find  his  shop 
a  great  convenience.  So  did  the  doctor's  wife,  and 
so  did  Mrs.  Gate,  at  the  large  carding-mill,  who, 
having  high  connections  frequently  visiting  her, 
might  be  expected  to  have  a  large  consumption  of 
ratafias  and  macaroons. 

The  less  aristocratic  matrons  of  Grimworth  seemed 


340  BROTHER  JACOB. 

likely  at  first  to  justify  their  husbands'  confidence 
that  they  would  never  pay  a  percentage  of  profits 
on  drop-cakes,  instead  of  making  their  own,  or  get 
up  a  hollow  show  of  liberal  housekeeping  by  pur- 
chasing slices  of  collared  meat  when  a  neighbour 
came  in  for  supper.  But  it  is  my  task  to  narrate 
the  gradual  corruption  of  Grimworth  manners  from 
their  primitive  simplicity,  —  a  melancholy  task,  if 
it  were  not  cheered  by  the  prospect  of  the  fine  peri- 
pateia  or  downfall  by  which  the  progress  of  the 
corruption  was  ultimately  checked. 

It  was  young  Mrs.  Steene,  the  veterinary  sur- 
geon's wife,  who  first  gave  way  to  temptation.  I 
fear  she  had  been  rather  over-educated  for  her 
station  in  life,  for  she  knew  by  heart  many  passages 
in  "  Lalla  Kookh,"  the  "  Corsair,"  and  the  "  Siege  of 
Corinth,"  which  had  given  her  a  distaste  for  domes- 
tic occupations,  and  caused  her  a  withering  disap- 
pointment at  the  discovery  that  Mr.  Steene,  since 
his  marriage,  had  lost  all  interest  in  the  "  bulbul," 
openly  preferred  discussing  the  nature  of  spavin 
with  a  coarse  neighbour,  and  was  angry  if  the  pud- 
ding turned  out  watery,  —  indeed,  was  simply  a 
top-booted  "  vet.,"  who  came  in  hungry  at  dinner- 
time ;  and  not  in  the  least  like  a  nobleman  turned 
Corsair  out  of  pure  scorn  for  his  race,  or  like  a  rene- 
gade with  a  turban  and  crescent,  unless  it  were  in 
the  irritability  of  his  temper.  And  scorn  is  such  a 
very  different  thing  in  top-boots  ! 

This  brutal  man  had  invited  a  supper-party  for 
Christmas-eve,  when  he  would  expect  to  see  mince- 
pies  on  the  table.  Mrs.  Steene  had  prepared  her 
mince-meat,  and  had  devoted  much  butter,  fine  flour, 
and  labour  to  the  making  of  a  batch  of  pies  in  the 
morning  ;  but  they  proved  to  be  so  very  heavy  when 


BROTHER  JACOB.  341 

they  came  out  of  the  oven,  that  she  could  only  think 
with  trembling  of  the  moment  when  her  husband 
should  catch  sight  of  them  on  the  supper-table.  He 
would  storm  at  her,  she  was  certain  ;  and  before  all 
the  company ;  and  then  she  should  never  help  cry- 
ing :  it  was  so  dreadful  to  think  she  had  come  to 
that,  after  the  bulbul  and  everything !  Suddenly 
the  thought  darted  through  her  mind  that  this 
once  she  might  send  for '  a  dish  of  mince-pies  from 
Freely's :  she  knew  he  had  some.  But  what  was 
to  become  of  the  eighteen  heavy  mince-pies  ?  Oh, 
it  was  of  no  use  thinking  about  that ;  it  was  very 
expensive, — indeed,  making  mince-pies  at  all  was 
a  great  expense,  when  they  were  not  sure  to  turn 
out  well:  it  would  be  much  better  to  buy  them 
ready-made.  You  paid  a  little  more  for  them,  but 
there  was  no  risk  of  waste. 

Such  was  the  sophistry  with  which  this  mis- 
guided young  woman  —  Enough  !  Mrs.  Steene  sent 
for  the  mince-pies,  and,  I  am  grieved  to  add,  garbled 
her  household  accounts  in  order  to  conceal  the  fact 
from  her  husband.  This  was  the  second  step  in  a 
downward  course,  all  owing  to  a  young  woman's 
being  out  of  harmony  with  her  circumstances,  yearn- 
ing after  renegades  and  bulbuls,  and  being  subject 
to  claims  from  a  veterinary  surgeon  fond  of  mince- 
pies.  The  third  step  was  to  harden  herself  by  tell- 
ing the  fact  of  the  bought  mince-pies  to  her  intimate 
friend  Mrs.  Mole,  who  had  already  guessed  it,  and 
who  subsequently  encouraged  herself  in  buying  a 
mould  of  jelly,  instead  of  exerting  her  own  skill,  by 
the  reflection  that  "  other  people  "  did  the  same  sort 
of  thing.  The  infection  spread ;  soon  there  was  a 
party  or  clique  in  Grim  worth  on  the  side  of  "  buy- 
ing at  Freely's  ; "  and  many  husbands,  kept  for  some 


342 


BROTHER  JACOB. 


time  in  the  dark  on  this  point,  innocently  swallowed 
at  two  mouthfuls  a  tart  on  which  they  were  paying 
a  profit  of  a  hundred  per  cent,  and  as  innocently 
encouraged  a  fatal  disingenuousness  in  the  partners 
of  their  bosoms  by  praising  the  pastry.  Others, 
more  keen-sighted,  winked  at  the  too  frequent  pres- 
entation on  washing-days,  and  at  impromptu  sup- 
pers, of  superior  spiced-beef,  which  flattered  their 
palates  more  than  the  cold  remnants  they  had 
formerly  been  contented  with.  Every  housewife 
who  had  once  "bought  at  Freely's"  felt  a  secret  joy 
when  she  detected  a  similar  perversion  in  her  neigh- 
bour's practice,  and  soon  only  two  or  three  old-fash- 
ioned mistresses  of  families  held  out  in  the  protest 
against  the  growing  demoralization,  saying  to  their 
neighbours  who  came  to  sup  with  them,  "  I  can't 
offer  you  Freely's  beef,  or  Freely's  cheese-cakes ; 
everything  in  our  house  is  home-made  ;  I  'm  afraid 
you  '11  hardly  have  any  appetite  for  our  plain  pastry." 
The  doctor,  whose  cook  was  not  satisfactory,  the 
curate,  who  kept  no  cook,  and  the  mining  agent,  who 
was  a  great  Ion  vivant,  even  began  to  rely  on  Freely 
for  the  greater  part  of  their  dinner,  when  they  wished 
to  give  an  entertainment  of  some  brilliancy.  In 
short,  the  business  of  manufacturing  the  more  fanci- 
ful viands  was  fast  passing  out  of  the  hands  of  maids 
and  matrons  in  private  families,  and  was  becoming 
the  work  of  a  special  commercial  organ. 

I  am  not  ignorant  that  this  sort  of  thing  is  called 
the  inevitable  course  of  civilization,  division  of 
labour,  and  so  forth,  and  that  the  maids  and  mat- 
rons may  be  said  to  have  had  their  hands  set  free 
from  cookery  to  add  to  the  wealth  of  society  in 
some  other  way.  Only  it  happened  at  Grimworth, 
which,  to  be  sure,  was  a  low  place,  that  the  maids 


BROTHER  JACOB.  343 

and  matrons  could  do  nothing  with  their  hands  at 
all  better  than  cooking ;  not  even  those  who  had 
always  made  heavy  cakes  and  leathery  pastry. 
And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  the  progress  of  civili- 
zation at  Grimworth  was  not  otherwise  apparent 
than  in  the  impoverishment  of  men,  the  gossiping 
idleness  of  women,  and  the  heightening  prosperity 
of  Mr.  Edward  Freely. 

The  Yellow  Coat  School  was  a  double  source  of 
profit  to  the  calculating  confectioner ;  for  he  opened 
an  eating-room  for  the  superior  workmen  employed 
on  the  new  school,  and  he  accommodated  the  pupils 
at  the  old  school  by  giving  great  attention  to  the 
fancy-sugar  department.  When  I  think  of  the 
sweet-tasted  swans  and  other  ingenious  white  shapes 
crunched  by  the  small  teeth  of  that  rising  genera- 
tion, I  am  glad  to  remember  that  a  certain  amount 
of  calcareous  food  has  been  held  good  for  young 
creatures  whose  bones  are  not  quite  formed ;  for 
I  have  observed  these  delicacies  to  have  an  inor- 
ganic flavour  which  would  have  recommended  them 
greatly  to  that  young  lady  of  the  "  Spectator's " 
acquaintance  who  habitually  made  her  dessert  on 
the  stems  of  tobacco-pipes. 

As  for  the  confectioner  himself,  he  made  his  way 
gradually  into  Grimworth  homes,  as  his  commodi- 
ties did,  in  spite  of  some  initial  repugnance.  Some- 
how or  other,  his  reception  as  a  guest  seemed  a 
thing  that  required  justifying,  like  the  purchasing 
of  his  pastry.  In  the  first  place  he  was  a  stranger, 
and  therefore  open  to  suspicion  ;  secondly,  the  con- 
fectionery business  was  so  entirely  new  at  Grim- 
worth that  its  place  in  the  scale  of  rank  had  not 
been  distinctly  ascertained.  There  was  no  doubt 
about  drapers  and  grocers,  when  they  came  of  good 


344  BROTHER  JACOB. 

old  Grim  worth  families,  like  Mr.  Luff  and  Mr. 
Prettymau:  they  visited  with  the  Palfreys,  who 
farmed  their  own  land,  played  many  a  game  at  whist 
with  the  doctor,  and  condescended  a  little  towards 
the  timber-merchant,  who  had  lately  taken  to  the 
coal-trade  also,  and  had  got  new  furniture ;  but 
whether  a  confectioner  should  be  admitted  to  this 
higher  level  of  respectability,  or  should  be  understood 
to  find  his  associates  among  butchers  and  bakers,  was 
a  new  question  on  which  tradition  threw  no  light. 
His  being  a  bachelor  was  in  his  favour,  and  would 
perhaps  have  been  enough  to  turn  the  scale,  even  if 
Mr.  Edward  Freely's  other  personal  pretensions  had 
been  of  an  entirely  insignificant  cast.  But  so  far 
from  this,  it  very  soon  appeared  that  he  was  a 
remarkable  young  man,  who  had  been  in  the  West 
Indies,  and  had  seen  many  wonders  by  sea  and 
land,  so  that  he  could  charm  the  ears  of  Grimworth 
Desdemonas  with  stories  of  strange  fishes,  especially 
sharks,  which  he  had  stabbed  in  the  nick  of  time  by 
bravely  plunging  overboard  just  as  the  monster  was 
turning  on  his  side  to  devour  the  cook's  mate  ;  of 
terrible  fevers  which  he  had  undergone  in  a  land 
where  the  wind  blows  from  all  quarters  at  once ; 
of  rounds  of  toast  cut  straight  from  the  bread-fruit 
trees ;  of  toes  bitten  off  by  land-crabs ;  of  large 
honours  that  had  been  offered  to  him  as  a  man  who 
knew  what  was  what,  and  was  therefore  particularly 
needed  in  a  tropical  climate  ;  and  of  a  Creole  heiress 
who  had  wept  bitterly  at  his  departure.  Such  con- 
versational talents  as  these,  we  know,  will  overcome 
disadvantages  of  complexion ;  and  young  Towers, 
whose  cheeks  were  of  the  finest  pink,  set  off  by  a 
fringe  of  dark  whisker,  was  quite  eclipsed  by  the 
presence  of  the  sallow  Mr.  Freely.     So  exceptional 


BROTHER  JACOB.  345 

a  confectioner  elevated  his  business,  and  might  well 
begin  to  make  disengaged  hearts  flutter  a  little. 

Fathers  and  mothers  were  naturally  more  slow 
and  cautious  in  their  recognition  of  the  new-comer's 
merits. 

"  He 's  an  amusing  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Prettyman, 
the  highly  respectable  grocer.  (Mrs.  Prettyman 
was  a  Miss  Fothergill,  and  her  sister  had  married 
a  London  mercer.)  "  He 's  an  amusing  fellow  ;  and 
I  've  no  objection  to  his  making  one  at  the  Oyster 
Club ;  but  he  's  a  bit  too  fond  of  riding  the  high 
horse.  He 's  uncommonly  knowing,  I  '11  allow  ;  but 
how  came  he  to  go  to  the  Indies  ?  I  should  like 
that  answered.  It 's  unnatural  in  a  confectioner. 
I  'm  not  fond  of  people  that  have  been  beyond  seas, 
if  they  can't  give  a  good  account  how  they  happened 
to  go.  When  folks  go  so  far  off,  it 's  because 
they've  got  little  credit  nearer  home,  —  that's  my 
opinion.  However,  he 's  got  some  good  rum  ;  but 
I  don't  want  to  be  hand  and  glove  with  him,  for  all 
that." 

It  was  this  kind  of  dim  suspicion  which  beclouded 
the  view  of  Mr.  Freely's  qualities  in  the  maturer 
minds  of  Grimworth  through  the  early  months  of  his 
residence  there.  But  when  the  confectioner  ceased 
to  be  a  novelty,  the  suspicions  also  ceased  to  be 
novel,  and  people  got  tired  of  hinting  at  them, 
especially  as  they  seemed  to  be  refuted  by  his 
advancing  prosperity  and  importance.  Mr.  Freely 
was  becoming  a  person  of  influence  in  the  parish  ; 
he  was  found  useful  as  an  overseer  of  tlie  poor, 
having  great  firmness  in  enduring  other  people's 
pain,  which  firmness,  he  said,  was  due  to  his  great 
benevolence ;  he  always  did  what  was  good  for 
people  in  the  end.     Mr.  Chaloner  had  even  selected 


346  BROTHER  JACOB. 

him  as  clergyman's  churchwarden,  for  he  was  a  very 
handy  man,  and  much  more  of  Mr.  Chaloner's 
opinion  in  everything  about  church  business  than 
the  older  parishioners.  Mr.  Freely  was  a  very 
regular  churchman,  but  at  the  Oyster  Club  he 
was  sometimes  a  little  free  in  his  conversation, 
more  than  hinting  at  a  life  of  Sultanic  self-indul- 
gence which  he  had  passed  in  the  West  Indies, 
shaking  his  head  now  and  then  and  smiling  rather 
bitterly,  as  men  are  wont  to  do  when  they  intimate 
that  they  have  become  a  little  too  wise  to  be 
instructed  about  a  world  which  has  long  been  flat 
and  stale  to  them. 

For  some  time  he  was  quite  general  in  his 
attentions  to  the  fair  sex,  combining  the  gallantries 
of  a  lady's  man  with  a  severity  of  criticism  on  the 
person  and  manners  of  absent  belles,  which  tended 
rather  to  stimulate  in  the  feminine  breast  the  desire 
to  conquer  the  approval  of  so  fastidious  a  judge. 
Nothing  short  of  the  very  best  in  the  department 
of  female  charms  and  virtues  could  suffice  to  kindle 
the  ardour  of  Mr.  Edward  Freely,  who  had  become 
familiar  with  the  most  luxuriant  and  dazzling  beauty 
in  the  West  Indies.  It  may  seem  incredible  that  a 
confectioner  should  have  ideas  and  conversation  so 
much  resembling  those  to  be  met  with  in  a  higher 
walk  of  life,  but  it  must  be  remembered  that  he  had 
not  merely  travelled,  he  had  also  bow-legs  and  a 
sallow,  small-featured  visage,  so  that  Nature  herself 
had  stamped  him  for  a  fastidious  connoisseur  of 
the  fair  sex. 

At  last,  however,  it  seemed  clear  that  Cupid  had 
found  a  sharper  arrow  than  usual,  and  that  Mr. 
Freely's  heart  was  pierced.  It  was  the  general  talk 
among  the  young  people  at  Grimworth.     But  was 


BROTHER  JACOB.  347 

it  really  love,  and  not  rather  ambition  ?  Miss 
Fullilove,  the  timber-merchant's  daughter,  was  quite 
sure  that  if  site  were  Miss  Penny  Palfrey,  she  would 
be  cautious  ;  it  was  not  a  good  sign  when  men 
looked  so  much  above  themselves  for  a  wife.  For 
it  was  no  less  a  person  than  Miss  Penelope  Palfrey, 
second  daughter  of  the  Mr.  Palfrey  who  farmed  his 
own  land,  that  had  attracted  Mr.  Freely's  peculiar 
regard,  and  conquered  his  fastidiousness;  and  no 
wonder  ;  for  the  Ideal,  as  exhibited  in  the  finest 
waxwork,  was  perhaps  never  so  closely  approached 
by  the  Pical  as  in  the  person  of  the  pretty  Penelope. 
Her  yellowish  flaxen  hair  did  not  curl  naturally,  I 
admit,  but  its  bright  crisp  ringlets  were  such  smooth, 
perfect  miniature  tubes,  that  you  would  have  longed 
to  pass  your  little  finger  through  them,  and  feel 
their  soft  elasticity.  She  wore  them  in  a  crop,  for 
in  those  days,  when  society  was  in  a  healthier 
state,  young  ladies  wore  crops  long  after  they  were 
twenty,  and  Penelope  was  not  yet  nineteen.  Like 
the  waxen  ideal,  she  had  round  blue  eyes,  and  round 
nostrils  in  her  little  nose,  and  teeth  such  as  the 
Ideal  would  be  seen  to  have,  if  it  ever  showed  them. 
Altogether,  she  was  a  small,  round  thing,  as  neat  as 
a  pink  and  white  double  daisy,  and  as  guileless ; 
for  I  hope  it  does  not  argue  guile  in  a  pretty  damsel 
of  nineteen,  to  think  that  she  should  like  to  have  a 
beau  and  be  "  engaged,"  when  her  elder  sister  had 
already  been  in  that  position  a  year  and  a  half. 
To  be  sure,  there  was  young  Towers  always  coming 
to  the  house  ;  but  Penny  felt  convinced  he  only 
came  to  see  her  brother,  for  he  never  had  anything 
to  say  to  her,  and  never  ofi'ered  her  his  arm,  and 
was  as  awkward  and  silent  as  possible. 

It  is  not  unlikely  that  Mr.  Freely  had  early  been 


348  BROTHER  JACOB. 

smitten  by  Penny's  charms,  as  brought  under  his 
observation  at  church,  but  he  had  to  make  his  way 
in  society  a  httle  before  he  could  come  into  nearer 
contact  with  them ;  and  even  after  he  was  well 
received  in  Grimworth  families,  it  was  a  long  while 
before  he  could  converse  with  Penny  otherwise 
than  in  an  incidental  meeting  at  Mr.  Luff's.  It 
was  not  so  easy  to  get  invited  to  Long  Meadows, 
the  residence  of  the  Palfreys ;  for  though  Mr. 
Palfrey  had  been  losing  money  of  late  years,  not 
being  able  quite  to  recover  his  feet  after  the  terrible 
murrain  which  forced  him  to  borrow,  his  family 
were  far  from  considering  themselves  on  the  same 
level  even  as  the  old-established  tradespeople  with 
whom  they  visited.  The  greatest  people,  even 
kings  and  queens,  must  visit  with  somebody,  and 
the  equals  of  the  great  are  scarce.  They  were  espe- 
cially scarce  at  Grimworth,  which,  as  I  have  before 
observed,  was  a  low  parish,  mentioned  with  the 
most  scornful  brevity  in  gazetteers.  Even  the  great 
people  there  were  far  behind  those  of  their  own 
standing  in  other  parts  of  this  realm.  Mr.  Palfrey's 
farmyard  doors  had  the  paint  all  worn  off  them,  and 
the  front  garden  walks  had  long  been  merged  in  a 
general  weediness.  Still,  his  father  had  been  called 
Squire  Palfrey,  and  had  been  respected  by  the  last 
Grimworth  generation  as  a  man  who  could  afford 
to  drink  too  much  in  his  own  house. 

Pretty  Penny  was  not  blind  to  the  fact  that  Mr. 
Freely  admired  her,  and  she  felt  sure  that  it  was  he 
who  had  sent  her  a  beautiful  valentine ;  but  her 
sister  seemed  to  think  so  lightly  of  him  (all  young 
ladies  think  lightly  of  the  gentlemen  to  whom  they 
are  not  engaged)  that  Penny  never  dared  mention 
him,  and  trembled  and  blushed  whenever  they  met 


BROTHER  JACOB.  349 

him,  tliinking  of  the  valentine,  which  was  very 
strong  in  its  expressions,  and  which  she  felt  guilty 
of  knowiQg  by  heart.  A  man  who  had  been  to  the 
Indies,  and  knew  the  sea  so  well,  seemed  to  her 
a  sort  of  public  character,  almost  like  Eobinson 
Crusoe  or  Captain  Cook ;  and  Penny  had  always 
wished  her  husband  to  be  a  remarkable  personage, 
likely  to  be  put  in  Mangnall's  Questions,  with 
which  register  of  the  immortals  she  had  become 
acquainted  during  her  one  year  at  a  boarding- 
school.  Only  it  seemed  strange  that  a  remarkable 
man  should  be  a  confectioner  and  pastry-cook,  and 
this  anomaly  quite  disturbed  Penny's  dreams.  Her 
brothers,  she  knew,  laughed  at  men  who  could  n't 
sit  on  horseback  well,  and  called  them  tailors ;  but 
her  brothers  were  very  rough,  and  were  quite  with- 
out that  power  of  anecdote  which  made  Mr.  Freely 
such  a  delightful  companion.  He  was  a  very  good 
man,  she  thought,  for  she  had  heard  him  say  at 
Mr.  Luffs,  one  day,  that  he  always  wished  to  do  his 
duty,  in  whatever  state  of  life  he  might  be  placed  ; 
and  he  knew  a  great  deal  of  poetry,  for  one  day  he 
had  repeated  a  verse  of  a  song.  She  wondered  if 
he  had  made  the  words  of  the  valentine  !  —  it  ended 
in  this  way  :  — 

"  Without  thee,  it  is  pain  to  live, 
But  with  thee,  it  were  sweet  to  die." 

Poor  Mr.  Freely  !  her  father  would  very  likely 
object,  —  she  felt  sure  he  would,  for  he  always 
called  Mr.  Freely  "  that  sugar-plum  fellow."  Oh,  it 
was  very  cruel,  when  true  love  was  crossed  in  that 
way,  and  all  because  Mr.  Freely  was  a  confectioner ; 
well,  Penny  would  be  true  to  him,  for  all  that,  and 
since  his  being  a  confectioner  gave  her  an  opportu- 


350  BROTHER  JACOB. 

nity  of  showing  her  faithfulness,  she  was  glad  of  it. 
Edward  Freely  was  a  pretty  name,  much  better 
than  John  Towers.  Young  Towers  had  offered  her 
a  rose  out  of  his  button-hole  the  other  day,  blush- 
ing very  much ;  but  she  refused  it,  and  thought 
with  delight  how  much  Mr.  Freely  would  be  com- 
forted if  he  knew  her  firmness  of  mind. 

Poor  little  Penny  !  the  days  were  so  very  long 
among  the  daisies  on  a  grazing  farm,  and  thought  is 
so  active,  —  how  was  it  possible  that  the  inward 
drama  should  not  get  the  start  of  the  outward  ?  I 
have  known  young  ladies,  much  better  educated, 
and  with  an  outward  world  diversified  by  instruc- 
tive lectures,  to  say  nothing  of  literature  and  highly 
developed  fancy-work,  who  have  spun  a  cocoon  of 
visionary  joys  and  sorrows  for  themselves,  just  as 
Penny  did.  Her  elder  sister  Letitia,  who  had  a 
prouder  style  of  beauty,  and  a  more  worldly  ambi- 
tion, was  engaged  to  a  wool-factor,  who  came  all  the 
way  from  Cattelton  to  see  her ;  and  everybody 
knows  that  a  wool-factor  takes  a  very  high  rank, 
sometimes  driving  a  double-bodied  gig.  Letty's 
notions  got  higher  every  day,  and  Penny  never 
dared  to  speak  of  her  cherished  griefs  to  her  lofty 
sister,  —  never  dared  to  propose  that  they  should 
call  at  Mr.  Freely's  to  buy  liquorice,  though  she 
had  prepared  for  such  an  incident  by  mentioning  a 
slight  sore  throat.  So  she  had  to  pass  the  shop  on 
the  other  side  of  the  market-place,  and  reflect,  with 
a  suppressed  sigh,  that  behind  those  pink  and  white 
jars  somebody  was  thinking  of  her  tenderly,  uncon- 
scious of  the  small  space  that  divided  her  from 
him. 

And  it  was  quite  true  that,  when  business  per- 
mitted, Mr.  Freely  thought  a  great  deal  of  Penny. 


BROTHER  JACOB.  351 

He  thought  her  prettiness  comparable  to  the  loveliest 
things  in  confectionery;  he  judged  her  to  be  of  sub- 
missive temper,  —  likely  to  wait  upon  him  as  well 
as  if  she  had  been  a  negress,  and  to  be  silently 
terrified  when  his  liver  made  him  ii'ritable ;  and  he 
considered  the  Palfrey  family  quite  the  best  in  the 
parish  possessing  marriageable  daughters.  On  the 
whole,  he  thought  her  worthy  to  become  Mrs.  Edward 
Freely,  and  all  the  more  so,  because  it  would  probably 
require  some  ingenuity  to  win  her.  Mr.  Palfrey  was 
capable  of  horsewhipping  a  too  rash  pretender  to 
his  daughter's  hand;  and,  moreover,  he  had  three 
tall  sons :  it  was  clear  that  a  suitor  would  be  at  a 
disadvantage  with  such  a  family,  unless  travel  and 
natural  acumen  had  given  him  a  countervailing 
power  of  contrivance.  And  the  first  idea  that 
occurred  to  him  in  the  matter  was  that  Mr.  Palfrey 
would  object  less  if  he  knew  that  the  Freelys  were 
a  much  higher  family  than  his  own.  It  had  been 
foolish  modesty  in  him  hitherto  to  conceal  the  fact 
that  a  branch  of  the  Freelys  held  a  manor  in  York- 
shire, and  to  shut  up  the  portrait  of  his  great-uncle 
the  admiral,  instead  of  hanging  it  up  where  a  family 
portrait  should  be  hung,  —  over  the  mantelpiece  in 
the  parlour.  Admiral  Freely,  K.  C.  B.,  once  placed 
in  this  conspicuous  position,  was  seen  to  have  had 
one  arm  only,  and  one  eye,  —  in  these  points  resem- 
bling the  heroic  Nelson,  —  wliile  a  certain  pallid 
insignificance  of  feature  confirmed  the  relationship 
between  himself  and  his  grand-nephew. 

Next,  Mr.  Freely  was  seized  with  an  irrepressible 
ambition  to  possess  Mrs.  Palfrey's  receipt  for  brawn, 
hers  being  pronounced  on  all  hands  to  be  superior  to 
his  own,  —  as  he  informed  her  in  a  very  flattering 
letter  carried  by  his  errand-boy.     Now,  Mrs.  Palfrey, 


352 


BROTHER  JACOB. 


like  other  geniuses,  wrought  by  instinct  rather  than 
by  rule,  and  possessed  no  receipts,  —  indeed,  despised 
all  people  who  used  them,  observing  that  people  who 
pickled  by  book  must  pickle  by  weights  and  measures, 
and  such  nonsense;  as  for  herself,  her  weights  and 
measures  were  the  tip  of  her  finger  and  the  tip  of 
her  tongue,  and  if  you  went  nearer,  why,  of  course, 
for  dry  goods  like  flour  and  spice,  you  went  by  hand- 
fuls  and  pinches,  and  for  wet,  there  was  a  middle- 
sized  jug,  —  quite  the  best  thing  whether  for  much 
or  little,  because  you  might  know  how  much  a  tea- 
cupful  was  if  you  'd  got  any  use  of  your  senses,  and 
you  might  be  sure  it  would  take  five  middle-sized 
jugs  to  make  a  gallon.  Knowledge  of  this  kind  is 
like  Titian 's  colouring,  difficult  to  communicate ; 
and  as  Mrs.  Palfrey,  once  remarkably  handsome, 
had  now  become  rather  stout  and  asthmatical,  and 
scarcely  ever  left  home,  her  oral  teaching  could 
hardly  be  given  anywhere  except  at  Long  Meadows. 
Even  a  matron  is  not  insusceptible  to  flattery,  and 
the  prospect  of  a  visitor  whose  great  object  would 
be  to  listen  to  her  conversation,  was  not  without  its 
charms  to  Mrs.  Palfrey.  Since  there  was  no  receipt 
to  be  sent  in  reply  to  Mr.  Freely's  humble  request, 
she  called  on  her  more  docile  daughter.  Penny,  to 
write  a  note,  telling  him  that  her  mother  woiild  be 
glad  to  see  him  and  talk  with  him  on  brawn,  any  day 
that  he  could  call  at  Long  Meadows.  Penny  obeyed 
with  a  trembling  hand,  thinking  how  wonderfully 
things  came  about  in  this  world. 

In  this  way  Mr.  Freely  got  himself  introduced 
into  the  home  of  the  Palfreys,  and,  notwithstanding 
a  tendency  in  the  male  part  of  the  family  to  jeer  at 
him  a  little  as  "  peaky  "  and  bow-legged,  he  presently 
established  his  position  as  an  accepted  and  frequent 


BROTHER  JACOB.  353 

guest.  Young  Towers  looked  at  him  with  increasing 
disgust  when  they  met  at  the  house  on  a  Sunday,  and 
secretly  longed  to  try  his  ferret  upon  him,  as  a  piece 
of  vermin  which  that  valuable  animal  would  he 
likely  to  tackle  with  unhesitating  vigour.  But  —  so 
blind  sometimes  are  parents  —  neither  Mr.  nor  Mrs. 
Palfrey  suspected  that  Penny  would  have  anything 
to  say  to  a  tradesman  of  questionable  rank  whose 
youthful  bloom  was  much  withered.  Young  Towers, 
they  thought,  had  an  eye  to  her,  and  that  was  likely 
enough  to  be  a  match  some  day ;  but  Penny  was  a 
child  at  present.  And  all  the  while  Penny  was 
imagining  the  circumstances  under  which  Mr.  Freely 
would  make  her  an  offer :  perhaps  down  by  the  row 
of  damson-trees,  when  they  were  in  the  garden  before 
tea  ;  perhaps  by  letter,  —  in  which  case  how  would 
the  letter  begin  ?  "  Dearest  Penelope,"  or  "  My 
dear  Miss  Penelope, "  or  straight  off,  without  dear 
anything,  as  seemed  the  most  natural  when  people 
were  embarrassed  ?  But,  however  he  might  make 
the  offer,  she  would  not  accept  it  without  her  father's 
consent :  she  would  always  be  true  to  Mr.  Freely, 
but  she  would  not  disobey  her  father.  For  Penny 
was  a  good  girl,  though  some  of  her  female  friends 
were  afterwards  of  opinion  that  it  spoke  ill  for  her 
not  to  have  felt  an  instinctive  repugnance  to  Mr. 
Freely. 

But  he  was  cautious,  and  wished  to  be  quite  sure 
of  the  ground  he  trod  on.  His  views  in  marriage 
were  not  entirely  sentimental,  but  were  as  duly 
mingled  with  considerations  of  what  would  be  ad- 
vantageous to  a  man  in  his  position  as  if  he  had 
had  a  very  large  amount  of  money  spent  on  his 
education.  He  was  not  a  man  to  fall  in  love  in 
the  wrong  place ;  and  so  he  applied  himself  quite 

23 


354  BUOTHER  JACOB. 

as  much  to  conciliate  the  favour  of  the  parents  as 
to  secure  the  attachment  of  Penny.  Mrs.  Palfrey 
had  not  been  inaccessible  to  flattery,  and  her  hus- 
band, being  also  of  mortal  mould,  would  not,  it 
might  be  hoped,  be  proof  against  rum, — that  very 
fine  Jamaica  rum  of  which  Mr.  Freely  expected 
always  to  have  a  supply  sent  him  from  Jamaica. 
It  was  not  easy  to  get  Mr.  Palfrey  into  the  parlour 
behind  the  shop,  where  a  mild  back-street  light  fell 
on  the  features  of  the  heroic  admiral ;  but  by  get- 
ting hold  of  him  rather  late  one  evening  as  he  was 
about  to  return  home  from  Grimworth,  the  aspiring 
lover  succeeded  in  persuading  him  to  sup  on  some 
collared  beef  which,  after  Mrs.  Palfrey's  brawn,  he 
would  find  the  very  best  of  cold  eating. 

Prom  that  hour  Mr.  Freely  felt  sure  of  success : 
being  in  privacy  with  an  estimable  man  old  enough 
to  be  his  father,  and  being  rather  lonely  in  the 
world,  it  was  natural  he  should  unbosom  himself 
a  little  on  subjects  which  he  could  not  spealc  of  in 
a  mixed  circle,  —  especially  concerning  his  expec- 
tations from  his  uncle  in  Jamaica,  who  had  no 
children,  and  loved  his  nephew  Edward  better  than 
any  one  else  in  the  world,  though  he  had  been  so 
hurt  at  his  leaving  Jamaica  that  he  had  threatened 
to  cut  him  off  with  a  shilling.  However,  he  had 
since  writtea  to  state  his  full  forgiveness,  and 
though  he  was  an  eccentric  old  gentleman  and 
could  not  bear  to  give  away  money  during  his  life, 
Mr.  Edward  Freely  could  show  Mr.  Palfrey  the 
letter  which  declared,  plainly  enough,  who  would 
be  the  affectionate  uncle's  heir.  Mr.  Palfrey  actu- 
ally saw  the  letter,  and  could  not  help  admiring 
the  spirit  of  the  nephew  who  declared  that  such 
brilliant  hopes  as  these  made  no  difference  to  his 


BROTHER  JACOB.  355 

conduct;  he  should  work  at  his  humble  business 
and  make  his  modest  fortune  at  it  all  the  same. 
If  the  Jamaica  estate  was  to  come  to  him,  —  well 
and  good.  It  was  nothing  very  surprising  for  one 
of  the  Freely  family  to  have  an  estate  left  him,  con- 
sidering the  lands  that  family  had  possessed  in  time 
gone  by,  —  nay,  still  possessed  in  the  Northumber- 
land branch.  "Would  not  Mr.  Palfrey  take  another 
glass  of  rum,  and  also  look  at  the  last  year's  balance 
of  the  accounts  ?  Mr.  Freely  was  a  man  who  cared 
to  possess  personal  virtues,  and  did  not  pique  him- 
self on  his  family,  though  some  men  would. 

We  know  how  easily  the  great  Leviathan  may 
be  led,  when  once  there  is  a  hook  in  Ms  nose  or  a 
bridle  in  his  jaws.  Mr.  Palfrey  was  a  large  man, 
but,  like  Leviathan's,  his  bulk  went  against  him 
when  once  he  had  taken  a  turning.  He  was  not  a 
mercurial  man,  who  easily  changed  his  point  of 
view.  Enough.  Before  two  months  were  over,  he 
had  given  his  consent  to  Mr.  Freely's  marriage  with 
his  daughter  Penny,  and  having  hit  on  a  formula 
by  which  he  could  justify  it,  fenced  off  all  doubts 
and  objections,  his  own  included.  The  formula 
was  this :  "  I  'm  not  a  man  to  put  my  head  up  an 
entry  before  I  know  where  it  leads." 

Little  Penny  was  very  proud  and  fluttering,  but 
hardly  so  happy  as  she  expected  to  be  in  an  engage- 
ment. She  wondered  if  young  Towers  cared  much 
about  it,  for  he  had  not  been  to  the  house  lately, 
and  her  sister  and  brothers  were  rather  inclined  to 
sneer  than  to  sympathize.  Grimworth  rang  with 
the  news.  All  men  extolled  Mr.  Freely's  good 
fortune ;  while  the  women,  with  the  tender  solici- 
tude characteristic  of  the  sex,  wished  the  marriage 
might  turn  out  well. 


3s6  BROTHER  JACOB. 

While  affairs  were  at  this  triumphant  juncture, 
Mr.  Freely  one  morning  observed  that  a  stone-carver 
who  had  been  breakfasting  in  the  eating-room  had 

left  a  newspaper  behind.     It  was  the  "  X shire 

Gazette,"  and,  X shire  being  a  county  not  un- 
known to  Mr.  Freely,  he  felt  some  curiosity  to 
glance  over  it,  and  especially  over  the  advertise- 
ments. A  slight  flush  came  over  his  face  as  he 
read.  It  was  produced  by  the  following  announce- 
ment :  "  If  David  Faux,  son  of  Jonathan  Faux,  late 
of  Gilsbrook,  will  apply  at  the  office  of  Mr.  Strutt, 
attorney,  of  Kodham,  he  will  hear  of  something  to 
his  advantage." 

"  Father 's  dead ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Freely,  involun- 
tarily.    "  Can  he  have  left  me  a  legacy  ? " 


CHAPTEE  III. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  result  quite  different  from  your 
expectations  that  Mr.  David  Faux  sliould  have 
returned  from  the  West  Indies  only  a  few  years 
after  his  arrival  there,  and  have  set  up  in  his  old 
business,  like  any  plain  man  who  had  never  trav- 
elled. But  these  cases  do  occur  in  life.  Since,  as 
we  know,  men  change  their  skies  and  see  new 
constellations  without  changing  their  souls,  it  will 
follow  sometimes  that  they  don't  change  their 
business  under  those  novel  circumstances. 

Certainly,  this  result  was  contrary  to  David's 
own  expectations.  He  had  looked  forward,  you 
are  aware,  to  a  brilliant  career  among  "  the  blacks  ; " 
but,  either  because  they  had  already  seen  too  many 
white  men,  or  for  some  other  reason,  they  did  not 
at  once  recognize  him  as  a  superior  order  of  human 
being;  besides,  there  were  no  princesses  among 
them.  Nobody  in  Jamaica  was  anxious  to  maintain 
David  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  his  society  ;  and 
those  hidden  merits  of  a  man  which  are  so  well 
known  to  himself  were  as  little  recognized  there  as 
they  notoriously  are  in  the  effete  society  of  the  Old 
World.  So  that  in  the  dark  hints  that  David 
threw  out  at  the  Oyster  Club  about  that  life  of 
Sultanic  self-indulgence  spent  by  him  in  the  luxu- 
rious Indies,  I  really  think  he  was  doing  himself 
a  wrong ;  I  believe  he  worked  for  his  bread,  and, 
in  fact,  took  to  cooking  again,  as,  after  all,  the  only 
department  in  which  he  could  offer  skilled  labour. 
He  had  formed  several  ingenious  plans  by  which 


358  BROTHER  JACOB. 

he  meant  to  circumvent  people  of  large  fortune  and 
small  faculty ;  but  then  he  never  met  with  exactly 
the  right  people  under  exactly  the  right  circum- 
stances.     David's  devices  for  getting  rich  without 
work  had  apparently  no  direct  relation  with  the 
world  outside  him,  as  his  confectionery  receipts  had. 
It  is  possible  to  pass  a  great  many  bad  halfpennies 
and  bad  half-crowns,  but  I  believe  there  has  no 
instance  been  known  of  passing  a  halfpenny  or  a 
half-crown  as  a  sovereign.      A  sharper    can    drive 
a  brisk  trade  in  this  world :  it  is  undeniable  that 
there  may  be  a  fine  career  for  him,  if  he  will  dare 
consequences  ;  but  David  was  too  timid   to  be  a 
sharper,  or  venture  in  any  way  among  the  man- 
traps of  the  law.     He  dared  rob  nobody  but  his 
mother.     And  so  he  had  to  fall  back  on  the  genuine 
value  there  was  in  him,  —  to  be  content  to  pass  as 
a  good  halfpenny,  or,  to  speak  more  accurately,  as 
a  good  confectioner.     For  in  spite  of  some  additional 
reading  and  observation,  there  was  nothing  else  he 
could  make  so  much  money  by ;  nay,  he  found  in 
himself  even  a  capability  of  extending  his  skill  in 
this  direction,  and  embracing  all  forms  of  cookery ; 
while,  in  other  branches  of  human  labour,  he  began 
to  see  that  it  was  not  possible  for  him  to  shine. 
Fate  was  too  strong  for  him ;  he  had  thought  to 
master  her  inclination  and  had  fled  over  the  seas  to 
that  end ;  but  she  caught  him,  tied  an  apron  round 
him,  and,  snatching  him  from  all  other  devices,  made 
him  devise  cakes  and  patties  in  a  kitchen  at  Kings- 
town.    He  was   getting   submissive   to   her,   since 
she  paid  him  with  tolerable  gains ;  but  fevers  and 
prickly  heat,  and  other  evils  incidental  to  cooks  in 
ardent  climates,  made  him  long  for  his  native  land ; 
so  he  took  ship  once  more,  carrying  his  six  years' 


BROTHER  JACOB.  359 

savings,  and  seeing  distinctly,  this  time,  what  were 
Fate's  intentions  as  to  his  career.  If  you  question 
me  closely  as  to  whether  all  the  money  with  which 
he  set  up  at  Grimworth  consisted  of  pure  and  simple 
earnings,  I  am  obliged  to  confess  that  he  got  a  sum 
or  two  for  charitably  abstaining  from  mentioning 
some  other  people's  misdemeanours.  Altogether, 
since  no  prospects  were  attached  to  his  family 
name,  and  since  a  new  christening  seemed  a  suit- 
able commencement  of  a  new  life,  Mr.  David  Faux 
thought  it  as  well  to  call  himself  Mr.  Edward 
Freely. 

But  lo!  now,  in  opposition  to  all  calculable 
probability,  some  benefit  appeared  to  be  attached 
to  the  name  of  David  Faux.  Should  he  neglect 
it,  as  beneath  the  attention  of  a  prosperous  trades- 
man ?  It  might  bring  him  into  contact  with  his 
family  again,  and  he  felt  no  yearnings  in  that 
direction :  moreover,  he  had  small  belief  that  the 
"  something  to  his  advantage  "  could  be  anything 
considerable.  On  the  other  hand,  even  a  small 
gain  is  pleasant,  and  the  promise  of  it  in  this  in- 
stance was  so  surprising  that  David  felt  his  curi- 
osity awakened.  The  scale  dipped  at  last  on  the 
side  of  writing  to  the  lawyer,  and,  to  be  brief,  the 
correspondence  ended  in  an  appointment  for  a 
meeting  between  David  and  his  eldest  brother  at 
Mr.  Strutt's,  the  vague  "  something  "  having  been 
defined  as  a  legacy  from  his  father  of  eighty-two 
pounds  three  shillings. 

David,  you  know,  had  expected  to  be  disin- 
herited; and  so  he  would  have  been,  if  he  had 
not,  like  some  other  indifferent  sons,  come  of 
excellent  parents,  whose  conscience  made  them 
scrupulous   where   much   more    highly  instructed 


36o  BROTHER  JACOB. 

people  often  feel  themselves  warranted  in  follow- 
ing the  bent  of  their  indignation.  Good  Mrs. 
Faux  could  never  forget  that  she  had  brought  this 
ill-conditioned  son  into  the  world  when  he  was  in 
that  entirely  helpless  state  which  excluded  the 
smallest  choice  on  his  part;  and,  somehow  or 
other,  she  felt  that  his  going  wrong  would  be  his 
father's  and  mother's  fault,  if  they  failed  in  one 
tittle  of  their  parental  duty.  Her  notion  of  pa- 
rental duty  was  not  of  a  high  "and  subtle  kind,  but 
it  included  giving  him  his  due  share  of  the  family 
property ;  for  when  a  man  had  got  a  little  honest 
money  of  his  own,  was  he  so  likely  to  steal  ?  To 
cut  the  delinquent  son  off  with  a  shilling,  was 
like  delivering  him  over  to  his  evil  propensities. 
No ;  let  the  sum  of  twenty  guineas  which  he  had 
stolen  be  deducted  from  his  share,  and  then  let 
the  sum  of  three  guineas  be  put  back  from  it,  see- 
ing that  his  mother  had  always  considered  three 
of  the  twenty  guineas  as  his ;  and,  though  he  had 
run  away,  and  was,  perhaps,  gone  across  the  sea, 
let  the  money  be  left  to  him  all  the  same,  and  be 
kept  in  reserve  for  his  possible  return.  Mr.  Faux 
agreed  to  his  wife's  views,  and  made  a  codicil  to 
his  will  accordingly,  in  time  to  die  with  a  clear 
conscience.  But  for  some  time  his  family  thought 
it  likely  that  David  would  never  reappear;  and 
the  eldest  son,  who  had  the  charge  of  Jacob  on  his 
hands,  often  thought  it  a  little  hard  that  David 
might  perhaps  be  dead,  and  yet,  for  want  of  cer- 
titude on  that  point,  his  legacy  could  not  fall  to 
his  legal  heir.  But  in  this  state  of  things  the 
opposite  certitude  —  namely,  that  David  was  still 
alive  and  in  England  —  seemed  to  be  brought  by 
the  testimony  of  a  neighbour,  who,  having  been 


BROTHER  JACOB.  361 

on  a  journey  to  Cattelton,  was  pretty  sure  he  had 
seen  David  in  a  gig,  with  a  stout  man  driving  by 
his  side.  He  could  "  swear  it  was  David, "  though 
he  could  "  give  no  account  why,  for  he  had  no 
marks  on  him ;  but  no  more  had  a  white  dog,  and 
that  did  n't  hinder  folks  from  knowing  a  white 
dog. "  It  was  this  incident  which  had  led  to  the 
advertisement. 

The  legacy  was  paid,  of  course,  after  a  few  pre- 
liminary disclosures  as  to  Mr.  David's  actual  posi- 
tion. He  begged  to  send  his  love  to  his  mother, 
and  to  say  that  he  hoped  to  pay  her  a  dutiful  visit 
by  and  by ;  but  at  present  his  business  and  near 
prospect  of  marriage  made  it  difficult  for  him  to 
leave  home.  His  brother  replied  with  much 
frankness. 

"  My  mother  may  do  as  she  likes  about  having 
you  to  see  her,  but,  for  my  part,  I  don't  want  to 
catch  sight  of  you  on  the  premises  again.  When 
folks  have  taken  a  new  name,  they  'd  better  keep 
to  their  new  'quiuetance.  " 

David  pocketed  the  insult  along  with  the  eighty- 
two  pounds  three,  and  travelled  home  again  in 
some  triumph  at  the  ease  of  a  transaction  which 
had  enriched  him  to  this  extent.  He  had  no  in- 
tention of  offending  his  brother  by  further  claims 
on  his  fraternal  recognition,  and  relapsed  with 
full  contentment  into  the  character  of  Mr.  Edward 
Freely,  the  orphan,  scion  of  a  great  but  reduced 
family,  with  an  eccentric  uncle  in  the  West 
Indies.  (I  have  already  hinted  that  he  had  some 
acquaintance  with  imaginative  literature ;  and 
being  of  a  practical  turn,  he  had,  you  perceive, 
applied  even  this  form  of  knowledge  to  practical 
purposes. ) 


362  BROTHER  JACOB. 

It  was  little  more  than  a  week  after  the  return 
from  his  fruitful  journey,  that,  the  day  of  his  mar- 
riage with  Penny  having  been  fixed,  it  was  agreed 
that  Mrs.  Palfrey  should  overcome  her  reluctance 
to  move  from  home,  and  that  she  and  her  husband 
should  bring  their  two  daughters  to  inspect  little 
Penny's  future  abode,  and  decide  on  the  new  ar- 
rangements to  be  made  for  the  reception  of  the 
bride.  Mr.  Freely  meant  her  to  have  a  house  so 
pretty  and  comfortable  that  she  need  not  envy 
even  a  wool -factor's  wife.  Of  course,  the  upper 
room  over  the  shop  was  to  be  the  best  sitting-room  ; 
but  also  the  parlour  behind  the  shop  was  to  be 
made  a  suitable  bower  for  the  lovely  Penny,  who 
would  naturally  wish  to  be  near  her  husband, 
though  Mr.  Freely  declared  his  resolution  never  to 
allow  his  wife  to  wait  in  the  shop.  The  decisions 
about  the  parlour  furniture  were  left  till  last, 
because  the  party  was  to  take  tea  there ;  and 
about  five  o'clock  they  were  all  seated  there  with 
the  best  muffins  and  buttered  buns  before  them, 
little  Penny  blushing  and  smiling,  with  her 
"  crop  "  in  the  best  order,  and  a  blue  frock  show- 
ing her  little  white  shoulders,  while  her  opinion 
was  being  always  asked  and  never  given.  She 
secretly  wished  to  have  a  particular  sort  of  chim- 
ney ornaments,  but  she  could  not  have  brought 
herself  to  mention  it.  Seated  by  the  side  of  her 
yellow  and  rather  withered  lover,  who,  though  he 
had  not  reached  his  thirtieth  year,  had  already 
crow's-feet  about  his  eyes,  she  was  quite  tremu- 
lous at  the  greatness  of  her  lot  in  being  married  to 
a  man  who  had  travelled  so  much,  —  and  before 
her  sister  Letty !  The  handsome  Letitia  looked 
rather  proud  and  contemptuous,  thought  her  future 


BROTHER  JACOB.  363 

brother-in-law  an  odious  person,  and  was  vexed 
with  her  father  and  mother  for  letting  Penny 
marry  him.  Dear  little  Penny!  She  certainly 
did  look  like  a  fresh  white-heart  cherry  going  to 
be  bitten  off  the  stem  by  that  lipless  mouth. 
Would  no  deliverer  come  to  make  a  slip  between 
that  cherry  and  that  mouth  without  a  lip  ? 

"  Quite  a  family  likeness  between  the  admiral 
and  you,  Mr.  Freely, "  observed  Mrs.  Palfrey,  who 
was  looking  at  the  family  portrait  for  the  first 
time.  "  It  's  wonderful !  and  only  a  grand-uncle. 
Do  you  feature  the  rest  of  your  family,  as  you 
know  of  ?  " 

"I  can't  say,"  said  Mr.  Freely,  with  a  sigh. 
"  My  family  have  mostly  thought  themselves  too 
high  to  take  any  notice  of  me. " 

At  this  moment  an  extraordinary  disturbance 
was  heard  in  the  shop,  as  of  a  heavy  animal 
stamping  about  and  making  angry  noises,  and 
then  of  a  glass  vessel  falling  in  shivers,  while  the 
voice  of  the  apprentice  was  heard  calling  "  Master  " 
in  great  alarm. 

Mr.  Freely  rose  in  anxious  astonishment,  and 
hastened  into  the  shop,  followed  by  the  four 
Palfreys,  who  made  a  group  at  the  parlour-door, 
transfixed  with  wonder  at  seeing  a  large  man  in  a 
smock-frock,  with  a  pitchfork  in  his  hand,  rush 
up  to  Mr.  Freely  and  hug  him,  crying  out,  "  Zavy, 
Zavy,  b 'other  Zavy!" 

It  was  Jacob,  and  for  some  moments  David  lost 
all  presence  of  mind.  He  felt  arrested  for  having 
stolen  his  mother's  guineas.  He  turned  cold,  and 
trembled  in  his  brother's  grasp. 

"  "Why,  how  's  this  ? "  said  Mr.  Palfrey,  advan- 
cing from  the  door.     "  Who  is  he  ?  " 


364  BROTHER  JACOB. 

Jacob  supplied  the  answer  by  saying  over  and 
over  again,  — 

"  I'se  Zacob,  b 'other  Zacob.  Come  'o  zee  Zavy  " 
—  till  hunger  prompted  him  to  relax  his  grasp, 
and  to  seize  a  large  raised  pie,  which  he  lifted  to 
his  mouth. 

By  this  time  David's  power  of  device  had  begun 
to  return,  but  it  was  a  very  hard  task  for  his  pru- 
dence to  master  his  rage  and  hatred  towards  poor 
Jacob. 

"  I  don't  know  who  he  is;  he  must  be  drunk," 
he  said,  in  a  low  tone  to  Mr.  Palfrey,  "  But  he  's 
dangerous  with  that  pitchfork.  He  '11  never  let  it 
go. "  Then  checking  himself  on  the  point  of  be- 
traying too  great  an  intimacy  with  Jacob's  habits, 
he  added,  "  You  watch  him,  while  I  run  for  the 
constable."     And  he  hurried  out  of  the  shop. 

"  Why,  where  do  you  come  from,  my  man  ?  " 
said  Mr.  Palfrey,  speaking  to  Jacob  in  a  concilia- 
tory tone.  Jacob  was  eating  his  pie  by  large 
mouthfuls,  and  looking  round  at  the  other  good 
things  in  the  shop,  while  he  embraced  his  pitch- 
fork with  his  left  arm  and  laid  his  left  hand  on 
some  Bath  buns.  He  was  in  the  rare  position  of  a 
person  who  recovers  a  long  absent  friend,  and  finds 
him  richer  than  ever  in  the  characteristics  that 
won  his  heart. 

"  I  's  Zacob  —  b'other  Zacob  —  't  home.  I 
love  Zavy, — b'other  Zavy,"  he  said,  as  soon  as 
Mr.  Palfrey  had  drawn  his  attention.  "  Zavy 
come  back  from  z'  Indies,  —  got  mother's  zinnies. 
Where  's  Zavy  ?  "  he  added,  looking  round,  and 
then  turning  to  the  others  with  a  questioning  air, 
puzzled  by  David's  disappearance. 

"  It  's  very  odd, "  observed   Mr.   Palfrey  to  his 


BROTHER  JACOB.  365 

wife  and  daughters.     "  He  seems  to  say  Freely  's 
his  brother  come  back  from  th'  Indies.  " 

"  What  a  pleasant  relation  for  us  !  "  said  Letitia, 
sarcastically.  "  I  think  he  's  a  good  deal  like  Mr. 
Freely,  He  's  got  just  the  same  sort  of  nose,  and 
his  eyes  are  the  same  colour.  " 

Poor  Penny  was  ready  to  cry. 

But  now  Mr.  Freely  re-entered  the  shop  without 
the  constable.  During  his  walk  of  a  few  yards  he 
had  had  time  and  calmness  enough  to  widen  his 
view  of  consequences,  and  he  saw  that  to  get 
Jacob  taken  to  the  workhouse  or  to  the  lockup 
house  as  an  offensive  stranger  might  have  awk- 
ward effects  if  his  family  took  the  trouble  of  in- 
quiring after  him.  He  must  resign  himself  to 
more  patient  measures. 

"  On  second  thoughts, "  he  said,  beckoning  to  Mr. 
Palfrey  and  whispering  to  him  while  Jacob's  back 
was  turned,  "  he  's  a  poor  half-witted  fellow.  Per- 
haps his  friends  will  come  after  him.  I  don't 
mind  giving  him  something  to  eat,  and  letting 
him  lie  down  for  the  night.  He  's  got  it  into  his 
head  that  he  knows  me,  —  they  do  get  these  fan- 
cies, idiots  do.  He  '11  perhaps  go  away  again  in 
an  hour  or  two,  and  make  no  more  ado.  I  'm  a 
kind-hearted  man  myself, — I  shouldn't  like  to 
have  the  poor  fellow  ill-used. " 

"  "Why,  he  '11  eat  a  sovereign's  worth  in  no 
time,"  said  Mr.  Palfrey,  thinking  Mr.  Freely  a 
little  too  magnificent  in  his  generosity. 

"  Eh,  Zavy,  come  back  ? "  exclaimed  Jacob,  giv- 
ing his  dear  brother  another  hug,  which  crushed 
Mr.  Freely 's  features  inconveniently  against  the 
stale  of  the  pitchfork. 

"  Ay,  ay, "  said  Mr.  Freely,  smiling,  with  every 


366  BROTHER  JACOB. 

capability  of  murder  in  his  mind,  except  the  cour- 
age to  commit  it.  He  wished  the  Bath  buns 
might  by  chance  have  arsenic  in  them. 

"  Mother's  zinnies  ?  "  said  Jacob,  pointing  to  a 
glass  jar  of  yellow  lozenges  that  stood  in  the  win- 
dow.    "  Zive  'em  me. " 

David  dared  not  do  otherwise  than  reach  down 
the  glass  jar  and  give  Jacob  a  handful.  He 
received  them  in  his  smock-frock,  which  he  held 
out  for  more. 

"They  '11  keep  him  quiet  a  bit,  at  any  rate," 
thought  David,  and  emptied  the  jar.  Jacob 
grinned  and  mowed  with  delight. 

"  You  're  very  good  to  this  stranger,  Mr. 
Freely, "  said  Letitia ;  and  then  spitefully,  as 
David  joined  the  party  at  the  parlour-door,  "  I 
think  you  could  hardly  treat  him  better,  if  he  was 
really  your  brother. " 

"  I  've  always  thought  it  a  duty  to  be  good  to 
idiots,"  said  Mr.  Freely,  striving  after  the  most 
moral  view  of  the  subject.  "  We  might  have  been 
idiots  ourselves,  —  everybody  might  have  been 
born  idiots,  instead  of  having  their  right  senses. " 

"  I  don't  know  where  there  'd  ha'  been  victual 
for  us  all  then, "  observed  Mrs.  Palfrey,  regarding 
the  matter  in  a  housewifely  light. 

"  But  let  us  sit  down  again  and  finish  our  tea," 
said  Mr.  Freely.  "  Let  us  leave  the  poor  creature 
to  himself. " 

They  walked  into  the  parlour  again ;  but  Jacob, 
not  apparently  appreciating  the  kindness  of  leav- 
ing him  to  himself,  immediately  followed  his 
brother,  and  seated  himself,  pitchfork  grounded, 
at  the  table. 

"Well,"    said   Miss    Letitia,    rising,    "I   don't 


BROTHER  JACOB.  367 

know  whether  you  mean  to  stay,  mother;  but  I 
shall  go  home. " 

"  Oh,  me  too,"  said  Penny,  frightened  to  death  at 
Jacob,  who  had  begun  to  nod  and  grin  at  her. 

"  Well,  I  think  we  had  better  be  going,  Mr. 
Palfrey,"  said  the  mother,  rising  more  slowly. 

Mr.  Freely,  whose  complexion  had  become  de- 
cidedly yellower  during  the  last  half-hour,  did  not 
resist  this  proposition.  He  hoped  they  should  meet 
again  "  under  happier  circumstances." 

"  It 's  my  belief  the  man  is  his  brother,"  said 
Letitia,  when  they  were  all  on  their  way  home. 

"  Letty,  it 's  very  ill-natured  of  you,"  said  Penny, 
beginning  to  cry. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  Mr.  Palfrey.  "  Freely  's  got 
no  brother,  —  he  's  said  so  many  and  many  a  time : 
he 's  an  orphan ;  he 's  got  nothing  but  uncles,  — 
leastwise,  one.  What 's  it  matter  what  an  idiot 
says  ?     What  call  had  Freely  to  tell  lies  ? " 

Letitia  tossed  her  head  and  was  silent. 

Mr.  Freely,  left  alone  with  his  affectionate  brother 
Jacob,  brooded  over  the  possibility  of  lurmg  him 
out  of  the  town  early  the  next  morning,  and 
getting  him  conveyed  to  Gilsbrook  without  further 
betrayals.  But  the  thing  was  difficult.  He  saw 
clearly  that  if  he  took  Jacob  away  himself,  his 
absence,  conjoined  with  the  disappearance  of  the 
stranger,  would  either  cause  the  conviction  that  he 
was  really  a  relative,  or  would  oblige  him  to  the 
dangerous  course  of  inventing  a  story  to  account 
for  his  disappearance,  and  his  own  absence  at  the 
same  time.  David  groaned.  There  come  occa- 
sions when  falsehood  is  felt  to  be  inconvenient. 
It  would,  perhaps,  have  been  a  longer-headed  de- 
vice, if  he  had  never  told  any  of  those  clever  fibs 


368  BROTHEE  JACOB. 

about  his  uncles,  grand  and  otherwise ;  for  the 
Palfreys  were  simple  people,  and  shared  the  popu- 
lar prejudice  against  lying.  Even  if  he  could  get 
Jacob  away  this  time,  what  security  was  there  that 
he  would  not  come  again,  having  once  found  the 
way  ?  0  guineas !  0  lozenges !  what  enviable 
people  those  were  who  had  never  robbed  their 
mothers,  and  had  never  told  fibs  !  David  spent 
a  sleepless  night,  while  Jacob  was  snoring  close 
by.  Was  this  the  upshot  of  travelling  to  the 
Indies,  and  acquiring  experience  combined  with 
anecdote  ? 

He  rose  at  break  of  day,  as  he  had  once  before 
done  when  he  was  in  fear  of  Jacob,  and  took  all 
gentle  means  to  rouse  this  fatal  brother  from  his 
deep  sleep ;  he  dared  not  be  loud,  because  his  ap- 
prentice was  in  the  house  and  would  report  every- 
thing. But  Jacob  was  not  to  be  roused.  He 
fought  out  with  his  fist  at  the  unknown  cause  of 
disturbance,  turned  over,  and  snored  again.  He 
must  be  left  to  wake  as  he  would.  David,  with  a 
cold  perspiration  on  his  brow,  confessed  to  himself 
that  Jacob  could  not  be  got  away  that  day. 

Mr.  Palfrey  came  over  to  Grimworth  before  noon, 
with  a  natural  curiosity  to  see  how  his  future  son- 
in-law  got  on  with  the  stranger  to  whom  he  was 
so  benevolently  inclined.  He  found  a  crowd  round 
the  shop.  All  Grimworth  by  this  time  had  heard 
how  Freely  had  been  fastened  on  by  an  idiot,  who 
called  him  "  Brother  Zavy  ;  "  and  the  younger  pop- 
ulation seemed  to  find  the  singular  stranger  an 
unwearying  source  of  fascination,  while  the  house- 
holders dropped  in  one  by  one  to  inquire  into  the 
incident. 

"  Why  don't  you  send  him  to  the  workhouse  ? " 


BROTHER  JACOB.  369 

said  Mr.  Prettyman.  "  You  '11  have  a  row  with 
him  and  the  children  presently,  and  he  '11  eat  you 
up.  The  workhouse  is  the  proper  place  for  him ; 
let  his  kin  claim  him,  if  he 's  got  any." 

"  Those  may  be  your  feelings,  Mr.  Prettyman," 
said  David,  his  mind  quite  enfeebled  by  the  torture 
of  his  position. 

"  What !  is  he  your  brother,  then  ? "  said  Mr. 
Prettyman,  looking  at  his  neighbour  Freely  rather 
sharply. 

"All  men  are  our  brothers,  and  idiots  particular 
so,"  said  Mr,  Freely,  who,  like  many  other  travelled 
men,  was  not  master  of  the  English  language. 

"  Come,  come,  if  he  's  your  brother,  tell  the  truth, 
man,"  said  Mr.  Prettyman,  with  growing  suspicion. 
"  Don't  be  ashamed  of  your  own  flesh  and  blood." 

Mr.  Palfrey  was  present,  and  also  had  his  eye  on 
Freely,  It  is  difficult  for  a  man  to  believe  in  the 
advantage  of  a  truth  which  will  disclose  him  to 
have  been  a  liar.  In  this  critical  moment,  David 
shrank  from  this  immediate  disgrace  in  the  eyes 
of  his  future  father-in-law. 

"  Mr.  Prettyman,"  he  said,  "  I  take  your  observa- 
tions as  an  insult,  I  've  no  reason  to  be  other- 
wise than  proud  of  my  own  flesh  and  blood.  If 
this  poor  man  was  my  brother  more  than  all  men 
are,   I  should  say  so." 

A  tall  figure  darkened  the  door,  and  David,  lift- 
ing his  eyes  in  that  direction,  saw  his  eldest 
brother,  Jonathan,  on  the  door-sill, 

"  I  '11  stay  wi'  Zavy,"  shouted  Jacob,  as  he  too 
caught  sight  of  his  eldest  brother;  and,  running 
behind  the  counter,  he  clutched  David  hard. 

"  What,  he  is  here  ? "  said  Jonathan  Faux,  com- 
ing forward.     "  My  mother  would  have  no  nay,  as 


370  BROTHER  JACOB. 

he  'd  been  away  so  long,  but  I  must  see  after  him. 
And  it  struck  me  he  was  very  like  come  after  you, 
because  we  'd  been  talking  of  you  o'  late,  and  where 
you  lived." 

David  saw  there  was  no  escape;  he  smiled  a 
ghastly  smile. 

"  What !  is  this  a  relation  of  yours,  sir  ? "  said  Mr. 
Palfrey  to  Jonathan. 

"  Ay,  it 's  my  innicent  of  a  brother,  sure  enough," 
said  honest  Jonathan.  "  A  fine  trouble  and  cost  he 
is  to  us,  in  th'  eating  and  other  things,  but  we  must 
bear  what 's  laid  on  us." 

"  And  your  name 's  Freely,  is  it  ? "  said  Mr. 
Prettyman. 

"  Nay,  nay,  ray  name 's  Faux,  I  know  nothing  o' 
Freely s,"  said  Jonathan,  curtly.  "  Come,"  he  added, 
turning  to  David,  "  I  must  take  some  news  to 
mother  about  Jacob.  Shall  I  take  him  with  me, 
or  will  you  undertake  to  send  him  back  ? " 

"  Take  him,  if  you  can  make  him  loose  his  hold 
of  me,"  said  David,  feebly. 

"  Is  this  gentleman  here  in  the  confectionery  line 
your  brother,  then,  sir  ? "  said  Mr.  Prettyman,  feel- 
ing that  it  was  an  occasion  on  which  formal  lan- 
guage must  be  used. 

"  /  don't  want  to  own  him,"  said  Jonathan,  un- 
able to  resist  a  movement  of  indignation  that  had 
never  been  allowed  to  satisfy  itself.  "  He  run 
away  from  home  with  good  reasons  in  his  pocket 
years  ago :  he  did  n't  want  to  be  owned  again,  I 
reckon." 

Mr.  Palfrey  left  the  shop ;  he  felt  his  own  pride 
too  severely  wounded  by  the  sense  that  he  had  let 
himself  be  fooled,  to  feel  curiosity  for  further 
details.     The   most  pressing  business   was   to  go 


BROTHER  JACOB.  371 

home  and  tell  his  daughter  that  Freely  was  a  poor 
sneak,  probably  a  rascal,  and  that  her  engagement 
was  broken  off. 

Mr.  Pretty  man  stayed,  with  some  internal  self- 
gratulation  that  he  had  never  given  in  to  Freely, 
and  that  Mr.  Chaloner  would  see  now  what  sort  of 
fellow  it  was  that  he  had  put  over  the  heads  of 
older  parishioners.  He  considered  it  due  from  him 
(Mr.  Prettyman)  that,  for  the  interests  of  the  par- 
ish, he  should  know  all  that  was  to  be  known  about 
this  "  interloper."  Grimworth  would  have  people 
coming  from  Botany  Bay  to  settle  in  it,  if  things 
went  on  in  this  way. 

It  soon  appeared  that  Jacob  could  not  be  made 
to  quit  his  dear  brother  David  except  by  force.  He 
understood,  with  a  clearness  equal  to  that  of  the 
most  intelligent  mind,  that  Jonathan  would  take 
him  back  to  skimmed  milk,  apple-dumpling,  broad- 
beans,  and  pork.  And  he  had  found  a  paradise  in 
his  brother's  shop.  It  was  a  difficult  matter  to  use 
force  with  Jacob,  for  he  wore  heavy  nailed  boots  ; 
and  if  his  pitchfork  had  been  mastered,  he  would 
have  resorted  without  hesitation  to  kicks.  Nothing 
short  of  using  guile  to  bind  him  hand  and  foot 
would  have  made  all  parties  safe. 

"Let  him  stay,"  said  David,  with  desperate 
resignation,  frightened  above  all  things  at  the  idea 
of  further  disturbances  in  his  shop,  which  would 
make  his  exposure  all  the  more  conspicuous.  "  You 
go  away  again,  and  to-morrow  I  can,  perhaps,  get 
him  to  go  to  Gilsbrook  with  me.  He  '11  follow  me 
fast  enough,  I  dare  say,"  he  added,  with  a  half- 
groan. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Jonathan,  gruffly.  "  I  don't 
see   why   you  should  n't   have   some   trouble   and 


372  BROTHEK  JACOB. 

expense  with  him  as  well  as  the  rest  of  us.  But 
mind  you  bring  him  back  safe  and  soon,  else 
mother '11  never  rest." 

On  this  arrangement  being  concluded,  Mr.  Pretty- 
man  begged  Mr.  Jonathan  Faux  to  go  and  take  a 
snack  with  him,  an  invitation  which  was  quite 
acceptable ;  and  as  honest  Jonathan  had  nothing 
to  be  ashamed  of,  it  is  probable  that  he  was  very 
frank  in  his  communications  to  the  civil  draper, 
who,  pursuing  the  benefit  of  the  parish,  hastened  to 
make  all  the  information  he  could  gather  about 
Freely  common  parochial  property.  You  may 
imagine  that  the  meeting  of  the  Club  at  the 
Woolpack  that  evening  was  unusually  lively. 
Every  member  was  anxious  to  prove  that  he  had 
never  liked  Freely,  as  he  called  himself.  Faux 
was  his  name,  was  it  ?  Fox  would  have  been  more 
suitable.  The  majority  expressed  a  desire  to  see 
him  hooted  out  of  the  town. 

Mr.  Freely  did  not  venture  over  his  door-sill 
that  day,  for  he  knew  Jacob  would  keep  at  his 
side,  and  there  was  every  probability  that  they 
would  have  a  train  of  juvenile  followers.  He  sent 
to  engage  the  Woolpack  gig  for  an  early  hour  the 
next  morning ;  but  this  order  was  not  kept  reli- 
giously a  secret  by  the  landlord.  Mr.  Freely  was 
informed  that  he  could  not  have  the  gig  till  seven  ; 
and  the  Grimworth  people  were  early  risers.  Per- 
haps they  were  more  alert  than  usual  on  this  par- 
ticular morning ;  for  when  Jacob,  with  a  bag  of 
sweets  in  his  hand,  was  induced  to  mount  the  gig 
with  his  brother  David,  the  inhabitants  of  the  mar- 
ket-place were  looking  out  of  their  doors  and  win- 
dows, and  at  the  turning  of  the  street  there  was 
even  a  muster  of  apprentices  and  schoolboys,  who 


BROTHER  JACOB.  373 

shouted  as  they  passed  in  what  Jacob  took  to  be  a 
very  merry  and  friendly  way,  nodding  and  grinning 
in  return.  "  Huzzay,  David  Faux !  how 's  your 
uncle  ? "  was  their  morning's  greeting.  Like  other 
pointed  things,  it  was  not  altogether  impromptu. 

Even  this  public  derision  was  not  so  crushing  to 
David  as  the  horrible  thought  that  though  he  might 
succeed  now  in  getting  Jacob  home  again  there 
would  never  be  any  security  against  his  coming 
back,  like  a  wasp  to  the  honey-pot.  As  long  as 
David  lived  at  Grimworth,  Jacob's  return  would  be 
hanging  over  him.  But  could  he  go  on  living  at 
Grimworth,  —  an  object  of  ridicule,  discarded  by 
the  Palfreys,  after  having  revelled  in  the  conscious- 
ness that  he  w^as  an  envied  and  prosperous  confec- 
tioner ?  David  liked  to  be  envied ;  he  minded  less 
about  being  loved. 

His  doubts  on  this  point  were  soon  settled. 
The  mind  of  Grimworth  became  obstinately  set 
against  him  and  his  viands,  and,  the  new  school 
being  finished,  the  eating-room  was  closed.  If  there 
had  been  no  other  reason,  sympathy  with  the  Pal- 
freys, that  respectable  family  who  had  lived  in  the 
parish  time  out  of  mind,  would  have  determined  all 
well-to-do  people  to  decline  Freely's  goods.  Be- 
sides, he  had  absconded  with  his  mother's  guineas : 
who  knew  what  else  he  had  done,  in  Jamaica  or 
elsewhere,  before  he  came  to  Grimworth,  worm- 
ing himself  into  families  under  false  pretences  ? 
Females  shuddered.  Dreadful  suspicions  gathered 
round  him :  his  green  eyes,  his  bow-legs,  had  a 
criminal  aspect.  The  rector  disliked  the  sight  of 
a  man  who  had  imposed  upon  him  ;  and  all  boys 
who  could  not  afford  to  purchase,  hooted  "  David 
Faux  "  as  they  passed  his  shop.     Certainly  no  man 


374  BROTHER  JACOB. 

now  would  pay  anything  for  the  "  good-will "  of 
Mr.  Freely's  business,  and  he  would  be  obliged  to 
quit  it  without  a  peculium  so  desirable  towards 
defraying  the  expense  of  moving. 

In  a  few  months  the  shop  in  the  market-place 
was  again  to  let,  and  Mr.  David  Faux,  alias  Mr. 
Edward  Freely,  had  gone,  —  nobody  at  Grim  worth 
knew  whither.  In  this  way  the  demoralization 
of  Grimworth  women  was  checked.  Young  Mrs. 
Steene  renewed  her  efforts  to  make  light  mince- 
pies,  and  having  at  last  made  a  batch  so  excellent 
that  Mr.  Steene  looked  at  her  with  complacency  as 
he  ate  them,  and  said  they  were  the  best  he  had 
ever  eaten  in  his  life,  she  thought  less  of  bulbuls 
and  renegades  ever  after.  The  secrets  of  the  finer 
cookery  were  revived  in  the  breasts  of  matronly 
housewives,  and  daughters  were  again  anxious  to 
be  initiated  in  them. 

You  will  further,  I  hope,  be  glad  to  hear  that 
some  purchases  of  drapery  made  by  pretty  Penny, 
in  preparation  for  her  marriage  with  Mr.  Freely, 
came  in  quite  as  well  for  her  wedding  with  young 
Towers  as  if  they  had  been  made  expressly  for  the 
latter  occasion.  For  Penny's  complexion  had  not 
altered,  and  blue  always  became  it  best. 

Here  ends  the  story  of  Mr.  David  Faux,  confec- 
tioner, and  his  brother  Jacob.  And  we  see  in  it, 
I  think,  an  admirable  instance  of  the  unexpected 
forms  in  which  the  great  Nemesis  hides  herself. 

(I860.) 


THE   END, 


